


others i've seen might never be mean (but they would never do)

by cherrylouvol6



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: "ill have what shes having" but make it repressed, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/F, Girl Direction, Inspired by a Movie, New Year's Eve, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Useless Lesbians, When Harry Met Sally (1989) - Freeform, a disastrous double date, cant believe im writing lesbian smut i was a good christian girl up until a few years ago, harry being a nightmare on the dancefloor, jealousy at a bar in which a certain singer is performing, scandalising old people in bakeries, watching movies over the phone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27399811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrylouvol6/pseuds/cherrylouvol6
Summary: Louis sighs.“Do you remember what I said to you the first time we met?”“That I’m naive and neurotic and would be hard pressed to ever find someone who could put up with me?” Harry snaps.“No, the other thing. You know.”Harry drops her gaze to her hands, fiddles with her rings.“You said you could never be ‘just friends’ with women, because sex would always get in the way. I told you I was straight. You laughed at me. I was so mad at you, but you were right. You were. And we can’t be friends.”.     .     .     .     .Or, a When Harry Met Sally AU in which Louis says all the wrong things and Harry always feels one step behind.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Niall Horan/Zayn Malik
Comments: 37
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hii!! here's some fun little disclaimers 
> 
> i dont know shit about british university so when they head off to london after graduation they’re 22, as they are in the movie. this was something i had to internally debate cause im australian and we graduate at 21, not that it really matters. they're only 22 for one chapter anyway
> 
> harry’s a bit of a phobe at the beginning (because honestly who wasnt in 1978) but obviously i keep it to a minimum because this is MY fantasy world and i get to choose the level of period-accurate homophobia
> 
> writing this was a crazy feat considering ive never written fic before and certainly not anything that a) had smut or b) ended up being over 20k so shoutout to everyone who kept encouraging me as i updated!! some chapters feature illustrations that are also by me ;) talk about hyperfixation huh
> 
> obviously the fic is based on when harry met sally, but there's a few key divergences from the storyline - this whole thing only exists because there was one night i couldn't sleep just thinking about how i would rewrite the movie to make it gay, right down to making the love interest more likeable (sorry billy crystal i just can't stand you)
> 
> title is from 'it had to be you' (im partial to the billie holiday version)
> 
> ill love you forever for leaving kudos and/or comments, or reblogging the [fic post](https://cherrylouvol6.tumblr.com/post/635095400392572928/others-ive-seen-might-never-be-mean-but-they). you can also come shout at me on my tumblr @cherrylouvol6, or just pop in for a chat. im always lurking
> 
> anyway enjoy this self indulgent little passion project that has unexpectedly come to fruition in a mere thirteen days. love you xx

****

**Manchester, 1977**

The harsh winter breeze bites at the tips of Harry’s fingers, but her palms remain deliciously warmed by the two travel cups of tea in her hands. As she steps out of the tea shop the little bell on the door jingles, and Harry turns to raise one cup in a goodbye salute to the cashier through the window.

She takes a few steps down the street to where her car is parked, expecting to see her travelling companion, but she comes to a standstill when she takes in the sight of two women kissing passionately against the side door.

“Oh my god,” she whispers to herself.

She averts her eyes, looks for something else to fix her gaze on - a bird, a man playing guitar outside the bakery - but her attention keeps being dragged back to the spectacle that is, apparently, her good friend Eleanor being pressed against Harry’s car by a _woman_. And, by the looks of it, having the absolute time of her _life_ there.

She hears a slight moan, and Harry instinctively covers her eyes with the travel cups, heart racing.

“Um.”

She sidesteps closer to the car and clears her throat hesitantly.

“Eleanor?”

The woman practically mauling Eleanor’s neck pulls back lazily and turns towards Harry, one arm still resting behind her lover’s shoulder on the car door. Her sharp blue eyes flick up and down, taking in Harry’s wild curls and unflattering layers of sweatshirts. Eleanor, for her part, seems a little embarrassed at least, flushing bright pink and lifting her hand in a flustered little wave.

“Harry! So sorry, we didn’t, ah, see you there. Um, this is - this is Louis. Louis Tomlinson.”

 _Louis Tomlinson_ leans away from the car, a mischievous grin etching its way across her mouth. Harry watches as she lifts a tattooed arm and flicks her choppy caramel-brown fringe across her face, then pulls at the short strands flicking out from her neck.

“And you must be Harry Styles,” she says. Her voice is rough, scratchy, yet Harry hears a hint of sweetness in her timbre, like honey in a cup of spiced brandy.

“Harriet, actually. Only my close friends call me Harry. No offence meant, of course.”

Louis’ eyes narrow, and Harry kicks herself internally. So much for making a good first impression.

“Right, well, we’d better get started if we want to get to London by tonight, _Harriet_.”

Louis glides over to where Harry is standing, grabs hold of one of the travel cups, and reaches her hand down to pluck Harry’s car keys out of her bag.

“I’ll take the first two hours, alright?”

Harry would argue, but Louis’ already closing the boot on her luggage and making her way to the driver’s seat, dropping one last chaste kiss to the corner of Eleanor’s lips as she passes. Harry snaps herself out of her stunned state and stumbles to the car.

. . . . .

The drive from Manchester to London is only four hours, but when Harry had offhandedly mentioned her plans to travel by herself during a farewell dinner with her family, her mother had nearly fainted. _It’s not safe, anything could happen. You may be twenty-two but you’re still my little girl_. After a short argument, it became clear that Anne would not be argued with, and at her insistence that Harry not travel alone, she had no choice but to ask around campus for a travel buddy.

Which led to her meeting Louis.

A _good friend_ (Harry mentally revises the label, taking what she witnessed earlier into account - but what would she be exactly? A girlfriend? _Boy_ friend?) of her study buddy Eleanor’s, Louis Tomlinson turned out to be Harry’s best bet for getting to London unscathed and still in possession of her mother’s blessing.

As Louis roughly manoeuvres the car onto the freeway, Harry wonders if perhaps she was a bit rash in agreeing to this.

She clears her throat quietly.

“So, Louis…”

Louis whips her head towards Harry, toothy grin on display.

“Yeah?”

“Um, what did you study? At Manchester? Obviously we never had any classes together.”

Louis blows some air out through her teeth.

“Small talk. Alright, sure. Literature to start, then switched to business. S’why I’m headed to London, my stepfather got me a starting position in his company and I’d be an idiot to turn it down. Security and all that.”

“Journalism for me. I’ve got an internship.”

“Pretty exciting, I imagine.”

“Yeah.”

. . . . .

Two hours later, Harry is still sitting primly in the passenger seat, legs together, hands in her lap and fiddling with the strap of her satchel. It’s a stark contrast to her companion, whose shapely jeans-clad legs are spread casually as she drives, one hand on the wheel as her other elbow rests on the windowsill, knit jumper sleeves pushed halfway up her arms.

“So,” Louis says, breaking the silence. “You ever seen a dyke before today?”

Harry flinches and her neck flushes a deep pink. Louis levels her sharp eyes on her, not unfriendly but guarded.

“Um, actually, no,” Harry chokes out. “I don’t have - a _problem_ with, um, homosexuals, though. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

Louis nods curtly, turns her eyes back to the road.

“Right, right. You just seemed a bit shaken up by me and El, is all.”

“I’m sorry.”

Silence hangs in the car for a tense few minutes. Harry stares at her hands.

“Let’s get some lunch, yeah?” Louis suggests.

She moves the car off towards the next exit.

“Alright, Harry?”

“Harriet,” she corrects. “Yes, I could eat.”

She flashes an awkward smile across the car at Louis. Louis tilts her head in acknowledgement.

. . . . .

They’ve ended up in a small bakery somewhere outside Birmingham. Harry picks out a modest sausage roll, while Louis opts for a veggie pastie.

“Are you a vegetarian, Louis?” Harry asks politely.

Louis levels her gaze at Harry.

“Why, cause I’m a lesbian?”

_Oh god._

“Shit, I’m sorry, I just meant, you know, cause you got the pastie - ”

Louis lets her fumble for a second, then chuckles, a wry grin tickling the corners of her mouth.

“Relax, Harry. I’m messing with you.”

Louis tosses her change to the cashier and grabs her food, choosing a little window corner table to sit at. Harry takes a deep breath and tries to calm her racing heart.

When she joins Louis the girl is draped over two of the four chairs, shoes apparently kicked off in favour of resting her bare feet on the wood. There’s a tiny triangle tattooed on her inner ankle. Harry suppresses the pointed look she would give anyone else for such blatant bad manners in favour of repairing the awkwardness between them.

She pulls out one of the remaining chairs and takes her seat, unpacking her lunch piece by piece - sausage roll out of the paper bag and onto the plate, custard tart set aside for afters, cup of tea positioned above her plate and to the right. She picks up the tomato sauce and carefully squeezes out a neat tablespoon-sized circle next to the roll, but never touching.

Through all of this Louis looks on, brow furrowed, taking small bites out of her pastie right from the paper bag.

“You’re pretty particular, aren’t you Harry?”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“I know what I like, yes.”

“One might say, a little neurotic?”

Harry bristles.

“It’s Harriet to you. And there’s nothing wrong with being neat,” she says, with a glance to Louis’ bare feet.

Louis holds her hands up in mock surrender and lowers her feet from the stool.

“Let’s change the subject, eh Harriet?” Louis smirks, bright blue eyes twinkling. “Here’s a hypothetical for you. D’you think that men and women can be friends?”

Harry blinks, caught off guard by the sudden swerve in conversation.

“I have male friends, so that would be a yes. Is this a trick question?”

“Sorry, let me clarify. See Harry- Harriet- as a lesbian, a woman who is attracted to women, I am in a unique position as to have a glimpse of sorts, into the male psyche. What I mean is, could two people ever truly be just friends if there’s sexual attraction?”

Harry takes a moment to consider this.

“I still think yes. I mean, I don’t know what it’s like for a -” she whispers, “ _lesbian_ , but like I said, I have male friends. Plenty of.”

“Yeah, but they want to fuck you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don't be naive, Harriet. All your male friends probably want to fuck you. Or at least they’ve contemplated the possibility of fucking you. That’s why they hang around. Take us for example. We could never be just friends, because there’s attraction between us.”

At this, Louis leans back in her chair and brushes the crumbs off the sleeves of her jumper, nonchalant. Harry can hardly believe her ears.

“Louis, that’s ridiculous. Plus, I’m _straight_. I like _men_ ,” she whispers hotly, glancing around in case they’re being listened to.

Louis bites her lip to hide a smile, but a small chuckle escapes her.

“I’m serious! I’ve had boyfriends, I’ve had _plenty_ of sex with men. I think I’d know if I didn’t like it.”

“I’m not saying you’re gay, Harry, don’t be ridiculous. One day with me won’t suddenly give you an all-consuming urge to burn your bra and bury your face in the nearest pussy. All I’m saying is that I caught you checking out my bum earlier, and even if you hadn’t we still couldn’t be friends because I happen to find you _objectively_ attractive.”

Harry’s face burns with heat, and her heart feels like a wild animal beating at its cage. Her forehead has never been so tense, and she can feel the beginnings of panic sweat under her bra.

“Are you _hitting on me_?” she hisses. “What is wrong with you? I _told_ you I don’t like girls. And have you forgotten poor Eleanor? She’s your _girlfriend_.”

“Okay first of all, get off your high horse Lady Harriet, me and Eleanor were just having some fun. Nothing serious,” Louis says too loudly as she stands up from the table.

“And _second_ of all,” the scrape from her chair makes a few people turn their heads, “I am _not_ some _predatory dyke_ out to get you. All I did was point out facts. Now, I’m going to go wait in the car while you finish your stupid tart. It’s your turn to drive.”

Louis marches out the door, leaving a decent handful of scandalised customers in her wake. Harry winces and mouths a “sorry” to the room before turning back to her lunch, mortified.

. . . . .

Louis and Harry arrive in the outskirts of London just after sunset, after a tense and deathly silent drive. Louis motions to a train station sign, and Harry pulls over.

“You can just drop me. I’ll make my own way from here.”

Harry opens her mouth to reply, but before she can speak Louis has already hopped out of the passenger seat and is wrestling to get her luggage out of the boot. She sighs and turns off the ignition, opens her own door and steps out.

Louis, victorious in her efforts, pushes the boot lid down with a thud, and turns to face Harry.

“So this is it.”

“Yep,” Harry replies.

“Well I’d say thanks for the ride, but it was actually me doing you a favour, so.”

Despite herself, Harry cracks a small smile.

“Thank you, Louis. I don’t suppose we’ll ever see each other again, so best of luck to you.”

Louis steps closer, close enough that Harry can smell the earthy scent of her. It makes her head spin.

“See you, Harry. Harriet. Same to you too.”

Louis wraps one arm around Harry’s shoulders in a strange half-hug. Harry’s eyes fall shut, and she feels a little bit of her weight fall forwards into Louis’ body, then almost as quickly as it appeared, Louis’ warmth disappears.

When Harry’s eyes flutter open, Louis is already halfway down the street. She lifts one hand to touch her shoulder, feel the ghost of a body, then clutches her keys in her hand and walks back to her car.

Adjusting the rear view mirror, she catches a glimpse of her own green eyes, a little clouded in thought.

Her proper adult life is about to begin. She'll have plenty of time to forget all about Louis Tomlinson.


	2. Chapter 2

**London, 1982**  
Harry’s ears are ringing amid the continuous buzz of travellers saying tearful farewells and posh female voices reading boarding announcements over the intercom.

Heathrow Airport on a Saturday morning is hardly an intimate space for a loving send-off, but as she shoves her passport back in her bag after one last triple check and turns to face Nick, she supposes it will have to do.

“That’s your flight they just called, isn’t it? We’d better say our goodbyes. Be safe, Harry. I love you.”

Her boyfriend of six months steps right into her space and Harry twitches away involuntarily before leaning back in and letting him wrap his long arms around her body. He pulls back slightly and tilts her head up, diving in for a passionate kiss. _Eyes shut, slide of the lips, swipe of the tongue_ … Harry lets him go at it for a minute before squinting her eyes open and sneakily peering at her watch, still attached to his mouth.

“Honey. Nick,” she mumbles against his insistent lips. “I’m gonna miss the flight.”

“Right, right, sorry sweetheart.”

He plants one last firm kiss on her before squeezing her arms and stepping back.

“Call me from the hotel as soon as you get in. And…”

Harry zones out as Nick keeps talking, eyes wandering and catching on a vaguely familiar silhouette weaving through a cluster of people - floppy caramel hair, sharp blue eyes. She can’t quite place the features, and before she can rack her brain, suddenly they’re gone, soon as they appeared. She shakes her head.

“…love you. Go on, off you go.”

Pulling her focus back to Nick, she blinks twice and gives him a dimpled smile, then picks up her bags.

“Bye honey. See you in two weeks,” she calls over her shoulder as she takes a few steps towards the terminal.

As she walks away she brings the back of her hand up to her mouth absentmindedly and wipes away a trail of lingering filaments of cold spit.

. . . . .

Half an hour into the flight, and only a few chapters into her book, Harry gets a prickling feeling at the back of her neck, like someone’s watching her. At first she tries to ignore it, but after another few tense minutes she gives up and whips her head around to face the seat behind her - green eyes instantly meeting bright blue.

The blue eyes widen. Startled, Harry snaps her head back round and takes in a deep breath.

_Holy shit._

“I thought you looked familiar.”

Harry raises her eyes to the ceiling, saying a quick prayer for the clarity of mind to recall the name of the woman, vague memories emerging from the dark corners of her mind.

“Have we met?” the scratchy honeycomb voice calls again.

_Shit. Lisa? Lauren?_

“It’s me, Louis,” the voice continues.

Fuck. Louis.

Harry turns around, plasters a pleasant smile on her face. Best make this as painless as possible.

“Louis Tomlinson, that’s right. I remember you.”

“And you…” Louis squints her eyes, clearly trying to dig up a name.

“Harriet. Styles. We drove from Manchester to London together about five years ago?”

Louis grins, the wolfish smile echoing the fading snapshot image of her in Harry’s mind.

“Right, Harriet. Lovely Harriet. Oi,” Louis reaches around the seat to poke Harry’s seat mate, “Would you mind swapping with me, mate?”

The burly man blinks, bewildered, but with a flutter of Louis’ eyelashes and a tilt of her head he gathers his book and pen and does as he’s told.

Harry squeezes her eyes tight as Louis plops into the man’s seat, sends a quick _fuck you_ to whatever god put her in this position, and turns to face the woman.

Twenty-seven looks _good_ on Louis. Where Harry is battling hormonal skin problems, Louis’ cheeks are clear and soft, and just as golden as the last time she saw her. Mentally she catalogues the rest of the differences - sharper jawline, choppier, edgier haircut (Harry herself has a very conservative ‘do), a rumpled yet well-fitted suit.

“You look well,” she says honestly.

Louis snorts.

“You’re not looking so bad yourself, love. I’m a big fan of this little bow here.”

She reaches up to play with Harry’s red necktie. Harry’s cheeks flush a little.

“So how have you been, fair Harriet? Still on the journalism?”

Harry feels a genuine smile tug at the corners of her mouth at the mention of her passion.

“Yes! Actually, I’m just on my way to New York for a two-week workshop with some of the _Journal_ ’s best and brightest,” she shares eagerly. “I’ve just been slowly trying to work my way up the ladder and this is the very first time I’ve been offered an opportunity as prestigious as this.”

“That’s great, Harry, genuinely. Always nice to see old acquaintances succeed.” Louis smiles and her eyes crinkle a little. Harry’s finger twitches, as if to fly up and gently rest on the delicate skin.

“And you? From what I remember you didn’t go into much detail about your plans last time we talked,” Harry asks, fiddling with her blazer button.

“It’s really not much to speak of. Still working for my stepdad’s company, all I do is crunch numbers. Nothing as glamorous as you, jet setting off on a writing retreat in your prettiest little necktie.”

Harry feels her cheeks heat up again. “So you’re heading to New York for…?”

“Just visiting my little sister,” Louis answers smoothly. “She got it in her head a few years back that she’d quite fancy being an artist, and that New York was the only place in the entire world she would be happy. So, as you might expect, I’ll be spending the next month dodging rats in Harlem.”

Cringing at the mention of rats, Harry spends a moment too long in silence, causing Louis to change the topic.

“Found yourself a boyfriend? Partner?” Louis sucks in an exaggerated gasp. “Husband?”

Harry chuckles.

“Um, boyfriend, six months. Nick Grimshaw. He’s in finance. Uh,” Harry can hardly breathe as Louis narrows her eyes in concentration and her hand comes up to straighten the collar of her shirt, then falls away. “He saw me off at the airport actually.”

Louis leans an elbow on the seat headrest. A smirk lifts the corners of her mouth.

“Yeah, now that you mention it, I did see a beanpole with ridiculous hair and an equally ridiculous suit practically mauling this poor woman outside the terminal. Hope she didn’t suffocate. Or drown, in what I _assume_ was saliva.”

Harry flashes her eyes in mock warning at Louis, who holds her hands up instantly.

“Sorry, sorry. Right, partners. I’ve actually been seeing my Stevie for two years now, we’re practically married. That is, as married as two dykes legally can be.”

A small chuckle of disbelief escapes Harry’s lips.

“Really? You? Sorry, um, I’m happy for you, that just - it seems awfully optimistic of you Louis. You never seemed like the commitment type.”

Instantly Harry regrets her choice of words, but Louis is unfazed, possibly even a little amused.

“Well y’know, you get sick of the whole thing after a while. You meet a girl at a poetry reading or in a bathroom or something, you hit it off, you ask her on a few dates, you go dancing, wiggle your bum against her hips a little - ” she lifts herself up from the seat to demonstrate - “you go home, have beautiful, passionate sex, you practically see the face of god in the beads of her sweat…but right after, you just lay there wondering when you’ll need to think up an escape route before she asks you to move in with her.”

Harry is scandalised.

“Is that true? That’s _horrible_ , Louis.”

“Oh, sweet, naive Harry,” Louis starts talking faster as she gets carried away. “Men are _much_ worse, let me tell you. My friend Cal was telling me that after he’s done, he just lays there calculating how long he has to cuddle the bird before he can go home. Five minutes? Ten? Bet you like to be held all night. You seem like the cuddling type.”

The two women just stare at each other for a moment, Harry with her mouth hanging open, Louis with an all-knowing sage expression gracing her brow. Harry mentally gathers up a few shreds of wit, grasping for a clever response.

“You know, Louis…you may look like a normal person, but I think you may actually be the angel of death.”

Louis barks out a laugh and claps her hand briefly to Harry’s shoulder before pulling away and opening her own book, and if Harry can still feel her touch thrumming through the spot for the next ten minutes, she’ll never tell.

. . . . .

The travelator under her feet makes Harry feel as if she’s on some sort of odd conveyor belt, headed for a production line - or perhaps, for the conveyor belt running luggage in circles. Or maybe that’s just the jet lag.

She sighs and checks her printed map of JFK Airport for the fourth time, taxi bay circled in red.

Her ears prick up at a faint “Sorry love, excuse me,” coming from somewhere behind her.

Footsteps laid by heavy boots draw closer, until a familiar face pops up beside Harry.

“Louis Tomlinson. I thought I ditched you at the baggage claim,” Harry quips.

She preens a little internally, pleased with her own wit.

“Harriet-not-Harry Styles. You’ll find I can be a very persistent girl. Not even those twins in wheelchairs could’ve kept me from catching up to you.”

“Those what?”

Harry looks behind her at the stream of people behind her, eyes wide and searching. After a moment she realises Louis’ having her on, and turns back with a reluctant smile to match the woman’s mischievously triumphant grin.

“Now Harriet, the reason I’ve just overtaken all these people is because I’ve just now realised that I’d quite like to have dinner with you. Just as friends of course. While we’re in the same place at the same time.”

Harry narrows her eyes. “I thought you said you can’t be friends with women?”

Ahead the travelator queue has moved forward, so Harry starts walking, Louis falling in step beside her.

“Did I say that?” Louis says incredulously. “I never said that.”

She thinks for a moment.

“Or maybe I did. Yeah, no, that’s right. No, I stick by that. _Unless_ , both of us are already involved. Which we are. So that would negate any sexual complications.”

Harry purses her lips, watches as the cogs turn in Louis’ ridiculous head.

“But, oh and this is a big but, if a _man_ became close to a woman, platonically, then his girlfriend wouldn’t understand why he had to be friends with the person he’s just friends with…and then that raises the question, is something _missing_ from the relationship? She accuses him of being _attracted_ to his friend - which I can understand, I know I would be - which takes us right back to the start. Men and women can’t be friends, ergo, as the more masculine presence between the two of us, I say we can’t be friends either. Too complicated.”

Harry rolls her eyes.

“I’m too jet lagged for this. Goodbye, Louis. Enjoy the Harlem rats.”

She picks up her pace. At first Louis continues to match it, but as soon as she notices the awkwardness of their silent tandem movement she abruptly stops moving to put some distance between them.

“You go on ahead, I’ll let you keep walking. Bye Harry,” she calls.

Harry shakes her head in disbelief. The _audacity_ of that woman.


	3. Chapter 3

**London, 1987**

**June**

“I just think it’s about time you get back out there again - here, how about him?”

Having had this conversation a thousand times, a wearied Harry takes a bite out of her toast and leans forward reluctantly to inspect the Rolodex card being brandished in front of her by a well-meaning Niall.

Out on the balcony of her modest London apartment, Harry sits around the rickety folding breakfast table with her two closest friends - ever-practical but vibrant brunette Liam and magnanimous Irish socialite Niall. The spring air is warm and floral, but the nature of their discussion has her rubbing her hands together nervously for warmth.

“Niall, I went on two dates with him only last November. Surely you remember me complaining about his awful breath, or maybe about him _pinching my ass as a greeting?_ ”

Niall’s trusty Rolodex is a veritable encyclopaedia of single male Londoners. In the four years Harry has known her, she has become well-acquainted with it enough to practically break out in hives as soon as she catches sight of it.

Liam gives Harry a sympathetic look. Harry pokes her tongue out at her.

“Oh, that’s right. Sorry, forgot to take him out of the ‘dex.” Niall doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic, but she does fling the rejected card towards the propped-open doors.

“Surely your soulmate is _somewhere_ in here…” Niall flicks furiously through her cards until a firm hand slams down, halting her movements.

“Niall. I do not need a boyfriend. I’m perfectly happy being single right now.”

“But Haz, Niall does have a bit of a point. You broke it off with Nick over a year ago. You’re always going on about how you want to settle down soon, but you never even go out to pull anymore, let alone put any effort into finding love,” Liam pipes up.

“That’s not fair. I broke it off with Nick because _he_ didn’t want to get married. There’s an extra mourning period for a relationship when marriage was on the cards, did you know that? It’s perfectly normal for me to not rush into something new.”

Liam furrows her brow.

“I was only six months out of my last relationship when I met David. I wouldn’t call that rushing.”

“Whose side are you on, Liam?” Harry huffs. “You know, your happy engagement seems like a bit of a statistical outlier to me. If you weren’t floating in premarital bliss you’d be able to see that there is not a single man in the entire greater London area suitable for me. Niall here,” she gestures at the blonde, who lets out a squawk of protest, “seems to think it’s because I’m too picky. And you know what? I think that’s a good thing. Call me crazy, but I think there ought to be at least a tiny shred of discernment in the process of finding someone to spend your _entire life_ with.”

The table falls silent but for the soft sounds of chewing as the women absorb Harry’s outburst.

Niall bites her lip, then takes an aborted breath.

“So does that mean you _don’t_ want Jeff’s number?”

. . . . .

The bookshop feels oddly quiet for a Friday afternoon.

Staring at the shelves of self-help books, Harry’s brain shifts in and out of focus. _Healing the Shame That Binds You. The Dance of Intimacy. Being Happy._ She lets out a sigh and lets her feet carry her to a different section, wandering untethered and listless.

Ahead of her a man’s pager beeps loudly, startling him as he knocks into a display. He shoots her a panicked look, then bolts for the exit, leaving a couple of books strewn across the carpet.

Immediately Harry crouches down to gather them up. All but one restored to their rightful place, Harry flicks a quick look over her shoulder and comes face to face with one of the most immaculately styled women she’s ever seen in her life.

The woman smiles, showcasing a set of perfectly straight teeth that practically sparkle against the bright red colour of her lips. Her ocean blue eyes are framed by a soft-looking blonde feathered fringe, the rest of her hair falling in an artful smooth wave down past her shoulders. The air in Harry’s lungs feels like it’s been sucked right out of her, to make room for this larger-than-life presence in a vintage-inspired shirt and fitted pants.

“What have you got there?” she asks, gesturing to the remaining book in Harry’s arms, American accent giving the vowels of her speech strange shapes.

Harry fumbles with the book, passes it into the woman’s outstretched hands.

“ _The Feminine Mystique_ , huh? Delving into the classics then, I see. Although I do think it’s a little outdated.”

“Um - I, uh, that’s - not mine,” Harry manages to choke out. “I was just - just picking it up. There was this man - ”

The woman smirks, runs two neatly manicured fingers through a chunk of long hair. “Isn’t there always?”

Harry feels a little lost, like they’re having two different conversations and she’s missing something obvious that will make it make sense.

“Uh. Yes? I think? Sorry, I don’t - ” Harry ruffles the back of her hair nervously. There’s a few beads of sweat collecting at the base of her neck.

The woman is seemingly unfazed by Harry’s inability to speak coherently, reaching out to place one supple hand on her forearm. Eyes sparkling, she opens her mouth to speak again but a scratchy, exasperated voice cuts in from down the aisle -

“Taylor, would you kindly stop running off to chat up birds while I’m trying to get your opinion on things?”

Harry thinks she might faint. Or maybe she already has, and this is a fever dream.

Coming towards them is none other than Louis Tomlinson, another five years older, looking ridiculously confident in a fashionably oversized men’s suit paired with a tight, low cut camisole and a chunky belt cinching the waist, her hair properly razed off now and swooping across her forehead. Taylor shoots a quick glance at Louis before returning her intense gaze to Harry.

“Taylor. Come off it, you’ve got no chance, love. Sorry,” Louis nods towards Harry. “Fancy seeing you here, Ms Harriet, and being chatted up by this blonde Casanova no less. You two do make a pretty picture though, I must admit.”

“You’re not into women?” Taylor asks, wide eyed, tightening her hand on Harry’s arm. “I’m so sorry, I just saw you and you just looked so sweet and I had to say hello…”

“Uh! Um, don’t worry about it! No apology necessary,” Harry rushes out.

Louis puts a gentle hand on Taylor’s arm.

“Love, would you go find Zayn for me? He said something about having a look in that record shop a few doors down, I need him to get me a copy of that one we were talking about last week. He’ll know the one. Cheers.”

Taylor nods and starts moving towards the exit, turning to wink and blow a kiss to Harry on her way. Harry can feel her cheeks burning.

“Sorry about Taylor, she’s very forward.”

Harry just stands there blankly for a moment, processing everything that just happened. She opens her mouth, then thinks better of it and shuts it again. Louis tilts her head in concern, but waits patiently for Harry to gather her words.

“ _She_ ’s a lesbian?” is the only sentence Harry can string together.

Louis nods, amused.

“But she’s so…”

“Feminine?” Louis offers, deadpan.

“ _Glamorous.”_

Louis snorts.

“Glamorous, ha! It’s just her American charm, makes everyone think she’s ten times as important as she is. Which, I suppose, is a good thing in her line of work. Songwriter, you know the type. You wouldn’t think she’s glamorous after she’s had a few glasses of red.”

Harry just nods, head spinning.

“You hungry, Harriet? It’s getting on, if you like we can find something to eat and catch up. You look like you could use something hearty, if I’m being honest, and my friends can find their own way home.”

“Alright,” she replies weakly.

Might as well just run the course of insanity this day is following to its natural conclusion. Who is Harry to argue with cruel fate?

. . . . .

Half an hour later the pair sit side by side on the pavement outside a crowded Soho restaurant, picking at their takeaway boxes. Crushed underneath them is the evening newspaper, as Harry had insisted they avoid getting street filth on the seat of their pants. Louis had been amused, but went along with it.

“So,” Harry swallows a mouthful of noodles. “Taylor. How long have you two been together?”

Louis nearly spits out the broccoli in her mouth. She crows with delight, slapping her knee.

“ _Taylor_? With _me_? Hardly. I’m definitely not her type,” she says between giggles.

Harry shakes her head, smiling.

“Well I don’t know, Louis, what else was I supposed to think?”

“Seriously Harry, you have no idea how funny that is. I really am the furthest thing from her type. Surely you got that from how _brazenly_ she was hitting on _you_?”

Harry’s cheeks tinge pink at the reminder.

“So her type is, what, gangly women with frizzy curls?”

“More like soft-looking women with delicate porcelain doll features and nice big…” Louis flicks her eyes briefly to Harry’s chest, “…shoes.”

Harry covers her face with her hands, giggling.

“Enough about Taylor, let’s talk about you, Harriet! Haven’t seen you since JFK.”

“Oh, just call me Harry. I don’t really like Harriet anymore, s’a bit stuffy.”

“Thought you only let your friends call you Harry?” Louis says, putting on an exaggerated expression of astonishment.

“Guess we’re friends now, whether you like it or not,” Harry teases.

“Guess we are. You know technically, this is dinner. We,” Louis gestures between them, “are having dinner. Together. As _friends_. Has the world gone mad?”

Harry just smiles and lifts another tangle of noodles to her mouth.


	4. Chapter 4

**London, 1987** ****

**July** ****

London in the summer is hardly sweltering, but the sun feels glorious and warming on Harry’s back as she sips her Pepsi can on the soft grass in Greenwich Park.

“Look at the two of us. Solidly in our thirties and we’re acting like teenagers, going barefoot in the park,” Harry giggles.

Louis’ sprawled on her back, Harry sitting cross-legged next to her. Eyelids gently closed, she tilts her head back slightly as she drinks in the rays, and when Harry turns her head to her she could swear the woman was glowing from within.

“’S so warm,” Louis mumbles, contorting her body to reach down and hike up her pant legs above her knees.

Harry’s eyes are immediately drawn to the fine dusting of dark hair that graces her shins, and before she can think twice about it she reaches out a hand to feel it under her fingertips. Louis startles at the touch, but relaxes back and lets out a small chuckle as she lets Harry satisfy her curiosity.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Harry asks quietly, still trailing a line gently down Louis’ leg. “I mean, doesn’t it get itchy or something?”

“No. Quite fond of it, actually. My mum always said it’s unsightly and that a grown woman ought to want to present her best self, but when I stopped shaving it at nineteen it was like I could breathe again,” Louis replies, eyes still resting shut.

Harry lets out a hum in acknowledgement and pulls her hand back.

The silence hangs.

“You never actually did tell me what happened to you and Stevie,” Harry says after a moment.

Louis’ reaction is minimal, just a slight twitch of her eye.

“You go first. Tell me about Nick, yeah?”

“There’s really not much to it,” Harry muses. “I’d always said I wanted to settle down before my thirties, and I assumed he wanted the same thing, but we never actually talked about it until he was suddenly telling me he didn’t want to be married. And that was it.”

She scrunches up her face a little.

“You know what though? Every time I think about it I’m more convinced it was the right thing for us to break up. I don’t even have any strong feelings about it, just a vague sense of relief. It’s like…I don’t actually miss him, I just miss the _idea_ of him. Does that make sense?”

Louis opens her eyes, nods a little. She takes a deep breath as she manoeuvres herself to a sitting position, then releases it in a sigh.

“Stevie and I were inseparable right up until three months ago. One day, completely out of the blue, she looks at me and says, ‘I don’t want to be with you anymore.’ I say to her, ‘don’t you love me anymore?’ and do you know what she says?”

Harry shakes her head, eyes wide.

“She looks me dead in the eyes and says ‘I don’t know if I ever loved you.’ And just like that, she moved out. Quite literally, the very next day. She was _planning ahead_ , a week in advance, hiring a moving service in secret because she _didn’t want to ruin my birthday_. And,” she lets out a self-deprecating laugh, “the cherry on top of it all is that there was someone else the whole time. A _man_. Some sugar daddy type with a fat cock.”

Harry can’t even begin to figure out how to respond to _that_.

. . . . .

**August**

Two hours into a marathon trawl of London’s side streets, they’re hovering around a market stall, picking up various little trinkets to show each other.

Louis beckons Harry over to where she’s standing.

“Have a look at these ones, Haz,” she says, gesturing to a box of antique rings of different shapes and sizes.

Harry’s pulse quickens as she bends over and peers into the box, eager hands plucking out three - one chunky gold, one with a burgundy gem inset and one simple silver band. She slides them on gently, testing out the sizes. When she finds the perfect arrangement she grins up at Louis, wiggling her fingers.

“How much for these?” Louis asks the woman behind the table.

Harry straightens up in an instant. “Louis, you don’t have to - ”

“Let me. It’s my treat,” Louis insists, already shoving a few notes into the woman’s hand.

“Louis,” Harry pouts. “You really didn’t have to. But thank you.”

She leans over to plant an exaggerated peck on Louis’ cheek, then smiles wide enough to pop her dimples out in full force.

“I love them. I’ll wear them every day.”

Louis waves her off, a gentle smile of her own pulling at her cheeks.

After a while they move away from the street vendors and just wander along, languid in the late summer sun.

Harry twirls her new rings around her fingers absentmindedly.

“You didn’t like me very much when we first met, did you?” she ponders aloud.

Louis blinks in surprise.

“I didn’t _dislike_ you,” she says slowly.

“No, you just didn’t like that I didn’t want to sleep with you,” Harry laughs.

Louis purses her lips. “Maybe so.”

“I didn’t like you at all. First you don’t believe me when I say I’m straight, then you get your _stinky feet_ all over my car…but look at us now.”

Harry shoves at Louis playfully. Louis cracks a smile, but it’s a little off.

. . . . .

**September**

_“Hey Haz.”_

“Turn on your TV, _Casablanca_ ’s on.”

_“On it.”_

.

_“So you’re telling me you’d genuinely be happier with Laszlo than Bogart? Seriously?”_

“Of course I would. Any sane woman would. She’s not going to spend the rest of her life stuck in Morocco with a man who runs a _bar_. It’s simple practicality, Lou, which is why she gets on the plane at the end of the film. Women are very practical. Straight women, I mean.”

_“So she just gives up the best sex of her life in favour of playing it safe? Do you hear yourself?”_

“We’re not all sex maniacs like you, Louis. She’s really not missing out on much.”

 _“What I’m hearing here is that you’ve never had truly_ good _sex. Which I will allow to slide for now, but very soon we_ will _be having a very serious conversation about what you let the men in your life get away with.”_

.

_“When you left Nick, did you still sleep on one side of the bed for a while?”_

“Hm. Yeah, a little for the first couple of months. I’m all sprawled out now, though, I’m a natural cuddler so I tend to just take up all the space.”

_“It’s been months and I can’t use the whole bed. I’m a bit of a cuddler too, but even when we were together, Stevie was pretty strict about keeping our space seperate. I guess that probably says something about our relationship, huh.”_

.

“Oh, this is the best part! Turn it up.”

_“Turning it up.”_

“This is it…‘Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’”

_“I can hear you trying to hold your cackle in. Let it out, you cheese.”_

“Sorry, couldn’t resist.”

. . . . .

**October**

“I had this crazy sex dream the other night, but I don’t want to scandalise you.”

Harry levels a halfhearted glare at Louis.

“Clearly you’re desperate to tell me about it, Louis.”

The breeze is cool where Harry and Louis sit cross-legged on a Brighton Beach picnic table, but the autumn sun is lovely and temperate. The butcher’s paper holding their serve of hot chips ruffles as Louis reaches down to grab a small handful and pop them in her mouth one by one.

“Well, I daren’t go into all the sinful details, but suffice to say, it was _very_ satisfying. Jennifer Grey is _quite_ the generous lover. Or at least she is in my subconscious.”

Louis flashes Harry a cheeky grin and shoves a few more chips in. Harry rolls her eyes, amused.

“I’ve had the same sex dream since I was twelve,” Harry says slowly, like she’s afraid of getting caught.

Louis raises her eyebrows quizzically.

“So in my dream, there’s this guy.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Oh, he’s always faceless. Just sort of…shadowy.”

“Okay, so what happens?”

“Well, he…walks up to me. And he _rips_ off my clothes.”

“Then what?”

“That’s it.” Harry takes a chip.

“That’s it? The same one since you were twelve?”

Harry nods.

“Sometimes it’s a little different.”

“Which part?”

“What I’m wearing.”

Louis cackles, and Harry can’t help but join in, wheezing into the air until there are tears pricking at her eyes.

“Let’s see a movie tonight,” Louis says.

Harry’s laughter freezes in her throat.

“Oh, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Hot date?”

“I was going to tell you, but it felt weird. Wrong.”

“I think it’s great! Good for you, Haz.” Louis tilts her head. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

Harry slaps her arm playfully.

“I think you should get out there too. When you’re ready,” she says gently.

“Oh, don’t worry about me love. I’m well and truly out there. Just the other night I was out with this lovely bird in Soho.” Louis winces. “Sort of deteriorated after a bit if I’m honest though, she said something about Simon and Garfunkel and all of a sudden I was having a full-on anxiety attack, all because Stevie sometimes used to play the _Bookends_ record when we…well.”

Harry tangles their fingers together in sympathy.

“Don’t worry about it, Lou. It might be months before you can enjoy something new. Maybe longer before you can sleep with someone again.”

“Oh, I slept with her.”

Harry blinks.

“You _slept_ with her? _After_ the anxiety attack?”

“Yeah.”

Harry can’t help it, she nearly topples off the table with the force of her laughter.


	5. Chapter 5

****

**London, 1987**

**November**

The delicatessen is buzzing, uncharacteristically busy for a Tuesday afternoon. Harry, Louis and their respective continental salads are placed right in the centre of the commotion, seated at their tiny two-person table surrounded by noisy diners.

For the past twenty minutes Harry has sat patiently, listening to Louis regale her with increasingly explicit stories about her latest fling ( _“I’m not joking Harry, I swear she actually meowed”_ ) and the dramatic early morning escape that had followed. After shovelling one last forkful of feta in her mouth, she opens her mouth to speak.

“I had a bit of a tryst myself the other week,” she floats, feigning nonchalance.

“Did you now? Consider my interest piqued,” Louis places her elbows on the table and leans forward pointedly. “What’s his name?”

Harry’s smile freezes. Should’ve known making up a blatant lie to finally get a word in would backfire. “Erm…guy from work. Rupert.”

Louis scoffs. “ _Rupert?_ God, that’s got to be one of the least attractive names I’ve ever heard. Sorry love, there’s just no way you were having good sex with _Rupert._ Can’t even moan that name. Horrid. ‘ _Give it to me, Rupert, harder!’_ ” Louis fakes an exaggerated squeal and fans her cheeks.

“Says the woman with a man’s name.”

“You ever try moaning _Louis?_ Sexy as fuck,” she grins wolfishly. "Plus, you’re not exactly one to speak, Harry.”

“Well it’s not like anyone’s going to moan _my_ name in bed. S’a bit different. I’m always the one doing all the… noises and whatnot. My boyfriends always seemed to like it.” she shrugs.

The conversation lulls for a moment, Louis momentarily lost in thought, before Harry pipes up again.

“You know what I was thinking the other day, I’m so glad I’m not into women. I’d hate to have ended up some bird you had to shoo out of your bed at three am.”

Louis merely raises an eyebrow.

“You know quite frankly Louis, you’re a bit of a public menace.”

“Well, I haven’t had any complaints,” she replies, smirking.

“How would you know? You leave so quickly, they don’t exactly have time to write you a comprehensive performance survey.”

“Oh, I _know_.”

“Because…?” Harry tilts her head expectantly, as if she genuinely doesn’t know the answer.

“Harry…” Louis starts carefully. “When you slept with your boyfriends, did you like it?”

Harry blinks.

“Of course I liked it. It was fine.”

Louis opens her mouth to speak, brow furrowed, but Harry cuts her off again.

"Anyway, how do you know your little flings aren’t just pretending to have a good time?”

“Are you trying to tell me all the women I sleep with are faking it?” Louis chuckles.

“Most women do.”

“Not with me. I know the difference, Haz. Trust me.”

“Right.”

Harry forks some more salad into her mouth, thinking hard as she chews. Then, inspiration strikes. She places the fork gently between her teeth and lets out the tiniest of soft grunts.

“Mm. _Yeah_.”

She pulls the fork from between her lips slowly, inhaling exaggeratedly as the metal passes through, then drops it gently from her thumb and forefinger. It clatters as it lands on the table, and she lifts her hand to caress the side of her head. As she threads her fingers through her hair, she lets out her best wanton moan.

She peeks through her heavily lidded eyes to gauge Louis’ reaction. The woman is staring back at her in what could be either unabashed lust or mortification. Harry decides lust is probably more likely.

“Ah! Mmm,” she starts building momentum, spurred on by her apparent success. “Oh god- ah- right there.”

“Harry,” Louis hisses, looking over her shoulder. “Stop doing that, oh my _god._ ”

She’s too far gone. Harry drags a trembling hand down her face and tilts her head back, prepares herself for the grand finale.

“Right there! Ha- oh _god!_ Yes, yes!” she wails, banging her fist on the table, unaware that the incessant chatter of the restaurant has died right down in the wake of her little performance.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Harry breathes out as she mimics coming down from her high, eyelids fluttering and chest heaving.

Two rows of tables down, an elderly woman speaks up.

“I’ll have what she’s having.”

At this, Harry snaps out of her act and grins smugly at Louis as she takes another bite of salad, terribly pleased with herself.

Louis winces.

“Um.”

Harry’s smile fades. Louis clears her throat awkwardly.

“Harry. I’m going to ask you something very personal and I need you to promise me you’re not going to spiral over it. Can you do that for me?”

Harry nods, confused.

“Have you ever actually… had an orgasm?”

She holds up a finger and preemptively shushes her as Harry takes in a breath to respond.

“With a man, I mean. By yourself doesn’t count, and don’t pretend you don’t do _that_.”

“I _don’t_ do that _,_ ” Harry snaps reflexively. “It’s _dirty_. The last time I did that was before I knew what it meant. Also, sex isn’t _supposed_ to be great. That’s a lie made up by men to make us lose our virginities.”

Louis bites her lip, a pained expression on her face.

“Harry, _please_ don’t take this the wrong way, but…”

Harry curls her hands around the edges of the table and grips the wood tightly.

“I know what you’re going to say, Louis, and it’s really not like that. I am _definitely_ straight, I just haven’t found someone I’m properly compatible with yet, that’s all. We don’t need to talk about it. Ever.” She bores her eyes into Louis’. “Now, are we going to split a cannoli or not? I just humiliated myself in front of an entire deli’s worth of people and I’m in desperate need of pastry.”

Louis looks like she’s going to say something else, but looking into Harry’s silently pleading expression, she lets it go.

“Yeah, let’s get the cannoli.”


	6. Chapter 6

**December**

“I’m dipping you, look out!”

Harry throws her head back, giggling, as she’s unceremoniously dipped towards the ground, held fast in her dance partner’s toned arms. Louis pulls her back upright, and immediately whirls her around in a wild spin. Harry shrieks, but manages to stay on her feet. They fall back into a regular rhythm, one of Louis’ hands resting on Harry’s waist and the other clasped to Harry’s own.

The Newtons’ annual New Year’s Eve party is well known among London’s socialites for three things - the live big band that blasts swing jazz through every room in the spacious penthouse, the seemingly endless supply of champagne that’s constantly replenished in each main area, and old Mrs Newton’s tendency to get very drunk and let loose on the floor, much to the delight of those who enjoy the aesthetics of watching an elderly heiress spin and twirl in a hedonistic celebration of her own wealth. The woman’s dance is usually unmatched in its absurdity - or at least it was, until Harry secured an invitation through Niall and decided to bring Louis as her plus one.

The two friends continue causing a commotion on the dance floor with their hazardously wild movements, bumping into other guests and almost slipping on stray napkins countless times. Their carefree attitude inspires a handful of eager partygoers to join in the unstructured dance, shifting the energy of the room to become exponentially more chaotic.

After some time the band starts playing slower and slower songs, until finally the gentle notes of a tender ballad fill the room. Instinctively, Harry moves closer to Louis until they’re dancing cheek to cheek, swaying along as the singer croons.

Absentmindedly, Harry tilts her head to nose at Louis’ soft hair. Without even realising it, she breathes in her scent and slides her eyelids shut.

She feels Louis’ head pull back a little and opens her eyes again, instantly locking onto dusky blue. Still swaying wordlessly, she holds the eye contact and parts her lips ever so slightly. Her breath feels weightless, as if she’s afraid to startle the frightened animal of her heart.

Dimly she’s aware of people counting down to midnight, but the thought feels muted, submerged underwater in her mind.

She feels her eyes drag down, excruciatingly slowly, to rest on Louis’ soft pink lips.

Suddenly the tension shatters when the crowd erupts in cheers and a small drunken man tumbles against Harry’s side, almost knocking her over.

Harry shakes her head, as if to forcibly snap out of whatever temporary insanity had taken hold.

“Happy New Year!” she shouts, a little too loud.

Louis quirks her lips up in a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Awkwardly, hesitantly, Harry leans down to place a chaste peck on Louis’ lips.

“Happy New Year, Haz.”

Harry finds her mind wandering to the herbal scent of Louis’ hair where she’d pressed her nose against her. Catching herself, she fumbles for a different thought to latch onto.

_Of course._

Momentary confusion forgotten, she feels her brain ticking as she turns her focus back to the woman in front of her.

“Louis, I’ve just had the most wonderful idea.”

. . . . .

**January**

“So you know what I did? You’re gonna think this is pathetic,” Niall says as she walks alongside Harry down the busy street, bulky coats flapping in the wind.

“What did you do, Niall?” Harry asks, deadpan.

“I wanted to make him jealous, right? So I sent flowers to myself. Real nice ones, with a little handwritten card from some other fella. And guess what happened? He didn’t even show up. Had to be with the wife in Kent.”

“ _Niall,_ ” Harry rubs a hand against her forehead.

“I don’t think he’s ever going to leave her.”

“Niall. Nobody thinks he’s ever going to leave her.”

“You’re right, I know you’re right,” Niall says mournfully. “I mean, I get it. She is fucking gorgeous. Sometimes I see them together when I’m watching the street outside his work and I think to myself, maybe I picked the wrong one.”

Harry groans.

“Niall, you have to stop seeing him. This is why I suggested this dinner thing in the first place, you’ve got to meet someone _single_. Plus, if you end up with Louis, I won’t end up miserably lonely because you’ll never drift away! My two best friends in the whole world, together, as a couple. It’ll be _perfect_. And nothing will have to change.”

“It has been a while since I’ve been with a woman. Could be fun,” Niall smirks.

“That’s the spirit,” Harry rolls her eyes and picks up the pace, rounding the corner to the restaurant.

. . . . .

Harry makes a mental note to congratulate Louis on her choice of restaurant. As they shrug off their coats, Harry and Niall trail their eyes over the lavishly decorated walls and candlelit tables, humming in approval to each other.

“Oh, Louis’ over there,” Harry says, already making a beeline for the table.

Louis stands up from their seats to greet them, and Harry takes in the pair. Louis looks fantastic, as usual, hair gently coiffed back and curvy silhouette exaggerated in a skintight turtleneck and plaid pants. Getting up to stand beside her is Zayn, assumedly, all dark eyes and dusted stubble and stylish tweed. Harry thinks he might be the most astoundingly beautiful man she’s ever seen. She smooths her dark green knit dress down self-consciously.

“Harry, this is Zayn, Zayn, this is Harry,” Louis rattles off, taking Harry’s hand to drag her close enough to give the man a greeting kiss on the cheek.

“Lovely to meet you, Louis’ told me a lot about you,” Harry says, shaking his hand.

“Likewise,” he replies. “She hasn’t shut up about _you_ since June.”

Harry blushes, then remembers her manners and turns to Niall, beckoning her over.

“Um, Louis, this is Niall. Niall, Louis.”

Harry watches as the women embrace politely, eyes zeroing in as Louis drags her fingers lightly over the shoulder of Niall’s blouse before they pull back.

She claps her hands together.

“Right! Let’s sit, yeah? I’m starving and I’ve got my eyes on that salmon dish.”

. . . . .

“So Louis tells me you’re an artist,” Harry turns to face Zayn, sips gently on her white wine.

“Yeah.”

Harry blinks, tries again.

“So do you do exhibitions, or…?”

Zayn tilts his head, clearly pondering the question deeply. Harry wonders how a straightforward question could need such careful consideration.

After a moment, he speaks.

“I had a show, a few months back. Mostly I just do pieces on commission, though.”

Harry waits for him to continue, but quickly realises that’s all she’ll get.

“Well I don’t know much about art, but um…I like a bit of modern stuff? Louis and I are planning to see some exhibitions sometime, you’ll have to tell me when you’re doing another one.”

Zayn smiles politely, nods.

Harry pours herself another generous glass of wine.

Next to them Louis and Niall are faring only slightly better, barely keeping their stilted conversation flowing with small talk.

Louis clears her throat and stands.

“Just popping to the loo, I’ll be back.”

Harry watches her go, then turns to the table.

“Actually, I need to go too, can you make sure the waiter doesn’t take my glass? Thanks.”

Flashing a quick smile at Zayn, she hurries off towards the toilets.

When she pushes the door open, Louis is already washing her hands.

“Lou, I think Zayn hates me,” she pouts.

Louis chuckles.

“Most people do, when they first meet him. He takes a bit to warm up, that’s all. I promise he doesn’t hate you.”

“And how’s it going with Niall?”

Louis purses her lips.

“She’s lovely. Nice girl.”

“Yeah, she is,” Harry says. “Was sort of hoping you’d say she could be the love of your life, though.”

They both snort.

“Well I’d better get back out there and try harder at capturing your best friend’s heart. She is the love of my life, after all.” Louis deadpans. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Louis slips out. Harry drops her smile and sighs into the empty room.

. . . . .

Harry walks back through the toilet door into the main restaurant, freshened up and confidence restored from a quick pep talk in the mirror.

As she walks she spots Niall with a hand over her chest, face lit up with laughter. Looks like Louis has managed to get past that earlier awkwardness.

Rounding the corner, however, it becomes apparent that Harry was mistaken - and the source of Niall’s delight is none other than Zayn, who is sporting his own beaming smile.

Harry takes her seat and looks over to Louis. They share a look, raising their eyebrows at the sparks flying between their respective dates.

“Wait, so you’re Zayn _Malik?_ When Harry mentioned a ‘Zayn’ I did think to myself, could it be? But then I thought, there’s no way. What are the chances? I saw your latest show, it was incredible!” Niall gushes, wide eyed.

Zayn’s eyes sparkle as they launch into an emphatic conversation about the art world Harry can’t even begin to fathom.

She sighs and lifts her wine glass towards Louis’, clinking them together halfheartedly.

“Thought you said he took a while to warm up,” Harry says flatly.

“Guess your little double date backfired, eh?” Louis says wryly.

Harry lets out an amused huff.

. . . . .

Back on the street outside, Zayn stands on the curb to watch for a taxi. Niall grabs Harry hastily and drags her aside.

“Harry,” she says urgently. “What do you think of Zayn?”

Harry would have to be blind not to see where this is going.

“He seems nice,” she drags out noncommittally, teasing.

“Because,” Niall lowers her voice, “I _want_ him. But obviously I don’t want to step on your toes or…”

“Niall, it’s fine. He’s all yours.”

Niall squeals and plants a kiss on Harry’s cheek, then looks over to Zayn just as he flags down a car.

“I think I’ll take this car - ”

Niall darts over, hand already on the door handle.

“I’ll go with you.”

He grins and climbs in after her. The door slams shut and the taxi speeds off, leaving dust in its wake as Harry and Louis burst into laughter.


	7. Chapter 7

****

**London, 1988**

**May**

Harry and Louis are trawling through the electronics section of a flashy department store, hunting for the perfect housewarming gift.

“Oh, Zayn would _love_ this,” Louis grins, holding up some sort of video game machine.

Harry rolls her eyes, smiling.

“It all seems so quick, doesn’t it? It’s only been four months and they’re already moving in together. You know, Niall was actually floating around the _‘m word’_ at brunch the other day,” Harry says, inspecting a popcorn maker.

“Monogamy?”

“ _Marriage_ , Louis, god!”

She receives a cheeky grin in response.

Louis gasps as her eyes catch on something over Harry’s shoulder. She moves slowly towards it, arms outstretched.

“The hunt is over, Harry. This is fucking incredible.”

The way Louis inspects the little cassette-operated karaoke machine sets off alarm bells in Harry’s head. Her fears are confirmed as Louis plucks a little microphone off the table and clicks ‘play’ on the tape.

Harry groans as a familiar piano riff crackles through the speakers. Louis cocks her hip out and raises the microphone, posing dramatically in preparation.

“ _Summer lovin’, had me a blast_ ,” she sings, raising her eyebrows at Harry. She quickly shifts to a coy girly pose and raises her voice to an exaggeratedly high pitch to sing, “ _Summer lovin’, happened so fast,_ ” fanning herself with her hand.

She continues to switch between roles line by line, dancing closer to Harry bit by bit until she looks her dead in the eyes and shoves the microphone right up to her mouth. Harry can’t help but give her what she wants.

“ _Summer days, driftin’ away, to-ah! Oh, the summer nights,_ ” she sings hesitantly.

Louis’ face lights up, eyes practically slits with how wide she’s grinning.

Harry makes the split second decision to ham it up even more.

“ _Tell me more, tell me more, did ya get very far?_ ” she puts on a strong American accent and bends her knees rhythmically, shoulders jutting out to mimic the shape of a knucklehead teen.

For the next line she has to glance down at the little lyric sheet. She summons her best Pink Lady voice and whines nasally into the microphone, but when she looks up to check Louis’ reaction her smile is gone.

“It’s my voice, isn’t it? You hate my voice. It’s terrible, isn’t it? It’s so _low_ for a woman…” she rambles.

“Harry. Shut up. I love your voice,” Louis says distractedly, wild eyes darting between her and a movement on the other side of the room. “Now if you would pay attention, I’m having a fucking _crisis_ here.”

Harry blinks, confused. Louis just flashes her eyes at her and tilts her head to the right. Harry’s eyes follow the movement and she finally notices the source of Louis’ sudden anxiety.

Moving towards them is a man in his late fifties, clearly very wealthy, with a beautiful woman on his arm. She seems to be around Harry’s age, with long, shiny, dark hair, and has her intense gaze fixed firmly on Louis.

 _Summer Nights_ is still blasting through the tinny little karaoke speakers.

“Stevie,” Louis breathes.

“Louis,” Stevie smiles. “This is Winston. Winston, this is Louis, my old roommate.”

Harry stands there, frozen, as they exchange polite greetings. After a minute Stevie nods to her and the pair continue walking.

“Roommate. Her old _roommate_ ,” Louis chokes out.

Harry reaches over to finally turn the music off, then rests a comforting hand on Louis’ arm.

“She looked weird. Didn’t she? I thought she looked weird.”

“I don’t know, Louis, I’ve never met her before. But if you think she looked weird, then yes. She looked weird.”

“Did you see that ring on her finger? Hideous. I bet it’s a fucking engagement ring. A hideous, gaudy engagement ring for his miserable third wife,” Louis spits out hysterically.

Harry steps forward and wraps her up in a full-body hug, holds her firmly as if to transmit calming energy out through her chest and into Louis’ beating heart. When her breathing slows, Harry gently releases her, keeping her hands on her shoulders.

“Are you okay?”

Louis sniffs. “Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“I was bound to run into her sometime.”

Louis blinks furiously to fight off the threat of tears. Overcome, Harry pulls her back into her arms, one hand carding gently through the short strands of hair at the back of her neck.

. . . . .

Niall stands proudly in front of the ugliest lamp Harry has ever seen.

“I like it. It says home to me,” she declares.

Zayn winces.

“Alright, how about we let Harry and Louis have a say, yeah?” he suggests.

Niall looks pointedly at Louis.

“I like it,” she shrugs.

Zayn rolls his eyes.

“Of course Louis likes it, she has no taste.”

Niall frowns at Zayn. Louis moves distractedly towards the window, leans her forearm against the sill and stares out into the street.

“Babe, if we had an extra room you could have all your things, including that velvet settee.”

“You don’t like my settee?” Niall exclaims.

“I’m just trying to help you…refine your taste.”

“I have good taste, Z.”

“Everyone thinks they have good taste, babe, but that’s literally not possible.”

“Oh, so because you’re an artist suddenly you’re an expert on interior design?”

Louis’ voice breaks through their argument.

“You know, we started like this. Stevie and I.” She’s listless, leaning heavily against the window, downcast face only half turned.

Harry grimaces.

“Arguing over silly little things. Fighting while trying to figure out how to mesh our lives together,” she starts raising her voice in agitation.

“Then all of a sudden, six years later, you’re singing _‘Summer Nights’_ in front of _Winston!_ ” she yells.

Gingerly stepping around boxes, Harry leans in to murmur to Louis.

“Do we have to talk about this right now?”

Louis ignores the unspoken warning and continues her outburst.

“ _Yes_ , we do have to talk about this right now, because our friends could benefit from my experience.” She turns to face the couple. “Right now you’re in the honeymoon stage, and everything’s wonderful and you’re happy and in _deep, all-consuming love_ , but sooner or later you’re going to end up screaming at each other about who gets this,” Louis darts over to an open box and grabs a piece of china, “commemorative Charles and Diana _wedding plate_.”

Niall and Zayn are shellshocked. Harry isn’t faring much better.

Louis comes closer and looks Zayn dead in the eyes, clapping her hands to his shoulders.

“Put your name on all your records, Z. Before they get all mixed up. Divorce lawyers will squeeze out every pound you have over those records. Not to mention that _hideous, offensively garish lamp_.”

She turns and makes for the door.

“I thought you liked it,” Niall calls.

Louis stops briefly.

“ _I was being nice!_ ” she grits out, before stomping out and slamming the door shut behind her.

Harry sighs and gives the couple an apologetic look.

“She just bumped into Stevie.”

She turns to follow Louis outside.

. . . . .

On the stone pavers of the entryway, Louis is pacing back and forth. Harry takes a deep breath, steeling herself.

“Louis. You have to learn not to express _every_ feeling you have the _exact_ moment they appear.”

“Fuck off, Harry,” she bites.

“Lou - ”

“You know what? I’m entitled to my anger. Especially when Mary Magdalene is telling _me_ how to live _my_ _life_.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Louis turns her livid eyes onto Harry.

“You never get upset about _anything_. How do you do that? Do you even _have_ feelings?”

“That’s ridiculous, Louis.”

“You know what I really think? I think,” she advances forward, “you bury everything deep inside on _purpose_ so you don’t have to deal with anything remotely challenging. I think there’s a _reason_ you never get upset about Nick. If you’re over him, why aren’t you seeing anyone? Hm? Tell me, Haz.”

Harry feels like her chest is being clawed open, and she can’t breathe.

“I- I see people,” she responds weakly.

“Do you? It’s not like you’re out on the town every weekend. I can’t remember the last time you gave anyone a proper go. You don’t even _want_ to sleep with anyone, do you? No, that’s not it. You just don’t want to sleep with - ”

Harry cuts her off before she can finish.

“And that will prove I’m over him? Because I _fuck_ somebody?” she shouts. “You’re going to have to move back to Doncaster, Louis, because you’ve slept with _every_ woman in London and you _still_ can’t forget Stevie.”

Hurt flashes over Louis’ face, but Harry suppresses the instinct to run to her.

“And I’ll _make love_ when it _means_ something - not the way you do it, like you’ve got some kind of _vendetta_.”

Louis doesn’t move for a moment.

“Are you done?” she asks quietly.

“Yes.”

“Can I say something?”

Harry nods, biting her lip.

Louis’ face melts.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she sighs, holding Harry tightly.

“I’m sorry too,” Harry whispers into her neck.

The sound of the front door opening startles them apart as Niall walks out, lugging her disgusting lamp.

“Don’t say a word,” the blonde warns as she dumps it onto a pile of rejected furniture.

. . . . .

**July** ****

Harry takes a deep breath and turns to her date. She has to tilt her head back to see his whole face, softly illuminated by the street lights.

“Okay, so before we go in I just - um, Louis is a little fragile right now, so I’d really appreciate it if you’d be, um, extra nice? Bad breakup.”

Andrew smiles.

“Sure, Harriet.” He places a hand over his heart. “I promise not to make your best friend hate me.”

She nods, then turns to the door, pushing her way into the pub.

Inside there’s a soft ambience from the dimmed lights, and her eyes are immediately drawn to the small stage surrounded by dangling yellow lightbulbs, where a few people are setting up sound equipment. She’s so distracted by it that she almost misses Andrew nudging her side and gesturing towards the bar.

“Thought you said she was fragile?”

Gesticulating wildly, wide grin on display, Louis is clearly in the middle of some outrageous anecdote - but all Harry can see is the way her hand is resting on some blonde woman’s waist possessively.

She swallows and threads her fingers between Andrew’s, walking over to join them.

“Louis!” she raises her arm in greeting, moving straight in for a tight hug. “And who’s this?” she asks pointedly, nodding to the young woman.

Louis returns her hand to the woman’s waist and responds, “This is Bree. She’s a hairdresser.”

The woman gives Harry a sickening smile.

“That’s actually how we met, Lou was fussing to some guy about her hair being too long and I was in the seat behind her on the Tube. I offered to book her in but she insisted she’s the only one who’s allowed to cut it!”

Harry forces a smile.

“Nice to meet you, Bree. Louis, this is Andrew, Andrew, Louis.”

Harry grits her teeth a little as Bree continues to insert herself into every third line of conversation, incessantly stroking her bottle-blonde, iron-straight hair.

“Who are we seeing again, Harriet? A friend of yours, you said?” Andrew says as he turns to Harry.

Harry nods. She makes eye contact with Louis, who mouths a bewildered _“Harriet?”,_ then turns to face her date again.

“Friend of Louis’. Taylor. Apparently she sings here fairly often, but this is the first time I’ve been able to go.”

“She’s been living in London for the last two years, but she’s actually from America,” Louis jumps in. “Beautiful lyrics, I keep telling her she could make it big but she refuses to change the words."

Andrew looks confused.

“Why would she need to change the words?”

“Oh, didn’t Harry tell you? She’s a lesbian. All the fancy music people she’s spoken to said that she’d have to change all the ‘she’s to ‘he’s and whatnot, but she says it doesn’t matter if she never gets bigger than this, so long as her work is honest. Pretty admirable stuff.”

Andrew tilts his head curiously at Harry.

“You sure do know a lot of lesbians, don’t you Harriet?”

Harry laughs awkwardly, eyes darting around for a change of subject.

Miraculously, she spots Taylor making her way to the stage, guitar in hand.

“Oh look, she’s about to go on, let’s get a bit closer, yeah?” she rushes out.

Bree opens her mouth to say something, but Louis shushes her with a gentle finger to her lips and guides her into the crowd. Harry tightens her grip on Andrew’s hand and moves towards the stage, a safe distance from the other two women.

The glow of the lightbulbs around the stage looks like a halo around Taylor’s body as she settles onto a stool and adjusts her guitar on her lap. Her hair is swept gently to one side, and she’s wearing a beautiful lace dress that cascades down her legs and stops short at mid-calf, feet in a soft-looking pair of brown suede brogues.

A hush falls over the crowd when she clears her throat.

“Hey guys, I’m Taylor. I’m gonna play a few songs for you tonight, if that’s okay.”

She grins as a few whistles erupt from where Harry assumes Louis is standing.

“This song about a girl I met when I lived in New York.”

Harry is transfixed as she plucks gently at the guitar and starts [singing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FwzwOMIN1vM) in a hushed, tender voice.

_“Busy streets and busy lives / and all we know, is touch and go.”_

Andrew’s body is warm behind her as she begins swaying to the music, but Harry’s body itches where he’s in close proximity.

_“And I never saw you coming / and I’ll never be the same.”_

Harry feels her eyes burn a little as she flows into the second verse.

Unconsciously, she turns to look for Louis.

On the other side of the crowd she spots her, tangled up with Bree, arms around her waist from behind and head resting on her shoulder.

A cold stabbing sensation spears through Harry’s body.

When she turns back towards the stage, hands clammy, Taylor is gazing directly at her.

_“We learn to live with the pain, mosaic broken hearts / But this love is brave and wild.”_

Dimly, she’s aware of Andrew moving to put his arms around her. She shrugs him off reflexively.

_“And I never saw you coming / and I’ll never be the same.”_

Harry turns to whisper in Andrew’s ear, asks him to go get her a drink. He nods and disappears.

Alone, she almost looks back to where she knows Louis is standing, but for some reason she can’t bear to. Instead, she directs all her focus to the stage, swallowing down the tears that are springing to her eyes unbidden.

_“These are the hands of fate / You’re my Achilles heel / This is the golden age of something good and right and real.”_

She takes in a shaky breath. It sounds more like a sob.

She counts to ten over and over in her head, tries to pull herself together before anyone sees.

_“And I never saw you coming / and I’ll never be the same.”_

It’s all she can do not to collapse on the floor right there.

. . . . .

Harry lies in bed, alone and wide awake.

Snippets of the evening flash through her mind - Andrew returning with her drink, Taylor playing a few more songs, the five of them squishing together into a booth after the show to share a bowl of chips, the vague sense of nausea that lingered in Harry’s stomach as Bree giggled nasally at everything Louis said.

Towards the end of the evening, Taylor had pulled her aside. She’d seen everything, from Harry’s spiralling angst in the audience to the way she’d almost looked ready to throttle Bree every time she opened her mouth. Said she thought Harry might need some support. That Harry had looked absolutely devastated at the sight of them kissing. She assured her that the jealousy would pass, that it was important to be patient with Louis and protect the friendship above all else.

Harry had desperately tried to explain, point out that she was there with a date, a _male_ date, but Taylor merely levelled a sympathetic but knowing look at her.

Hours later, buried underneath the duvet, Harry can still feel the incessant thrumming of that blind panic running through her body, accompanied by that ice-cold sensation she’d felt watching Louis kiss that woman goodnight as they left.

She shuts her eyes so tightly stars appear on the backs of her eyelids, tries to drown it all out.

One thing keeps circling back through her mind as she forcibly wills herself to sleep.

_“And I never saw you coming / and I’ll never be the same.”_


	8. Chapter 8

**London, 1988**

**September** ****

_“Hello?”_

“Louis, thank god you’re there.”

_“Harry, are you crying?”_

“I need you. Can I come over?”

. . . . .

The door swings open and Harry rushes in, tearily wiping at her eyes.

Louis shuts the door firmly behind her and follows Harry as she makes a beeline for the bedroom and flings herself face down on the duvet, shoulders shaking as her body is wracked with sobs.

“Harry, oh my god, what happened?”

Louis reaches out to pat comforting circles on her back, eyebrows knitted in concern.

“He’s getting married,” Harry wails, muffled by pillows.

“Who’s getting married, love?” Louis croons, moving to stroke her hair gently.

Harry lifts her head up and meets Louis’ eyes.

“ _Nick._ ”

“Oh, Haz.”

Louis reaches for the box of tissues on the nightstand, pulls a few out and starts dabbing at her tear-tracked cheeks.

“He- he called,” Harry hiccups, “asked how I was going, said he’s got some big case, and I was sitting there thinking like, I’m over him, I can’t believe I was ever with him…and then he said _‘I have some news’_ …"

A fresh wave of tears spills from her eyes and she grabs a handful of tissues to roughly wipe her eyes.

“She works in his office. They’re obscenely in love. He’s so _happy._ ”

Harry looks like she’s about to continue, but her eyes catch on Louis’ outfit and she trails off.

“Were you going out tonight, Lou?” she says slowly, gaze fixed.

Louis looks absolutely stunning in a deep blue shift dress, some sort of silky material, its strappy shoulders and delicate boatneck accentuating her swirling chest piece tattoo and small bust. Harry looks closer and notices that she’s wearing the slightest hint of makeup, just a smudge of kohl around her eyes, highlighting her electric blue gaze.

“It’s alright, Haz, I cancelled. You’re more important to me.”

“But you look so _lovely_ ,” Harry whines, “you shouldn’t have to waste your Saturday night on me. I feel horrible.”

Louis smiles reassuringly.

“Haz, its okay. Bree can find someone else to dance with tonight. You needed me, so I’m here. Now, there’s more to it, isn’t there?”

Harry takes a deep breath.

“The thing is, Nick and I broke up because he didn’t want to get married, but the truth is he just didn’t want to marry _me._ He didn’t- he didn’t _love_ me.”

Louis nods sympathetically.

“It’s okay Haz, you’ll get through this, I promise. Here, here’s some more tissues.”

Harry can’t see her face, but she can feel it turning horrid and blotchy.

“But that’s not the worst- worst part, Lou,” she moans.

“What’s that, love?”

“I realised that…I never loved him, either. All those years. And I just thought - oh god, what’s _wrong_ with me? Have I ever loved anyone? Am I _broken_? I never even want _sex_.”

Her breathing becomes more laboured as she struggles for air through her tightening chest.

“And that’s when I realised,” she sobs, “Of course he couldn't have loved me. I’m difficult. I’m closed off. I’m so repressed I couldn’t even…and you and Taylor kept saying…”

Louis’ eyes widen.

“Lou,” Harry wails, “I think I don’t ever want to be with a man again. I think I might - ”

She can’t finish her sentence for the anguished tears spilling down her cheeks.

Louis immediately scoops her up in her arms, gently cupping the back of her head. She feels a wet patch form on her dress where Harry’s eyes rest.

“Oh god,” Harry mumbles, “I’m so sorry, Lou, I’m ruining your lovely dress.”

Louis shushes her softly.

“Go on, have a good cry, love. It’s not my favourite anyway. Would rather be wearing pants, if I’m honest.”

She buries her face in the soft material for a good minute, soaking it through, before her sobs ease slightly and she brings her head back up to face Louis. ****

“Harry, Harry,” Louis murmurs, stroking her hands through Harry’s hair. “Shh, love.”

Louis swipes her thumbs tenderly across Harry’s damp cheeks, collecting teardrops.

Harry crawls a little closer, sniffling, until she’s almost in Louis’ lap. She clenches the wadded-up tissues in her hands, as if to remind herself they’re there.

“Harry,” Louis exhales.

She leans in and places the softest kiss right under Harry’s left eye, repeats the action on the other side. Harry’s forehead is likewise adorned with Louis’ soft lips, as is the tip of her nose. Harry’s eyes flick down to her delicate pink mouth, up to her half-lidded eyes and back down again.

This close, she can see the little constellation of freckles on Louis’ cheek in vivid detail. Without thinking, she moves in and presses her own lips to the spot. Another one, right next to it. Closer this time. To what, Harry can hardly imagine, as she keeps moving entirely on instinct. Closer. _Closer_.

Her next chaste kiss lands directly on Louis’ mouth.

Harry smiles. How lovely to kiss a friend. She leans in again, her kiss slightly firmer this time. She flicks her eyes up and meets Louis’ gaze, hooded and dark, yet strangely…fearful? Disbelieving? She releases the tissues from one hand and brings it up to cup Louis’ jaw, gently giving it the slightest of caresses. She leans in again.

This time, Louis’ lips press back.

It’s still so chaste, so innocent, but there’s a slight shiver down her spine and Harry suddenly has a heightened sense of her own pulse, thrumming through her chest, pooling in her hands and feet, spurring her to shift her lips hesitantly. Her mouth begins to move against Louis’, excruciatingly slow, like running in a dream.

Harry shifts her body again, hardly caring where she’s settled so long as it’s _closer._ Louis takes the opportunity to gently nip at her plush bottom lip with her teeth, and Harry can feel the electricity shoot through her. She gasps at the feeling and rests her fingers very gently on her lip, and Louis pulls back, expression guarded, an apology on the tip of her tongue.

“Harry, I - ”

She’s cut off by Harry’s fervent kiss as the woman practically launches herself forward to reattach herself to Louis’ mouth, slick lips sliding together with purpose. Emboldened by Harry’s enthusiasm, Louis keeps one palm resting at the back of Harry’s neck as she slips her tongue between her lips. Harry shivers, noticing the foreign sensation of warmth pooling in her lower abdomen, and moves her hips forward slightly.

The spark that erupts between her legs catches her entirely off guard, and she cries out in surprise. Pulling away from the kiss, she looks down and sees she’s bracketing Louis’ thigh, her crotch pressing deliciously against the width of flesh through her leggings. She swivels her hips experimentally, and moans at the sensation that washes over her. A little desperate, she lifts her head to meet Louis’ eyes, sees her heated gaze.

Eyes locked, Louis slowly, carefully moves her hands down to grasp Harry’s hips, long fingers digging into the soft flesh of her cheeks.

Everything snaps.

Harry surges up to reattach herself to Louis’ lips and tongue as she grinds down, chasing the sparks of pleasure that form with every movement. She can feel herself getting wetter in her pants, slicking them up and making the glide smoother. She lets out a whimper.

She pulls back from Louis’ mouth, maintaining the fluid movement of her hips, and rests her forehead on Louis’ shoulder, panting a little against her exposed collarbone. She blinks to clear her eyes a little, and is struck by the vision in front of her.

Here she is, _riding Louis Tomlinson’s thigh_ , lips swollen and blood red, but she’s hardly touching her. Why isn’t she touching her? Harry can’t think of a single reason why she shouldn’t just _let go_ , let the ocean pull her under to drown. So she does.

Without missing a single slow swivel of her hips, she lifts her hands to caress Louis’ beautiful angular face. She runs her fingers through her hair, tugging at the ends, mussing up the careful styling into something more natural. She moves to her collarbones, feeling them out golden and inked and glistening with sweat, brushes her hands down Louis’ toned upper arms, then lifts them so they hover just over the swell of her chest.

Louis breathes out a quiet, “yeah,” almost inaudible.

Gaining confidence, Harry palms over the silky satin covering Louis’ breasts, just getting a feel for the shape. When she brushes her thumbs over the little bumps in fabric where Louis’ nipples are pebbling underneath, Louis lets out an involuntary sigh. Vowing to return to them later, Harry moves on to the dip of her waist, drinking in the feeling of rib giving way to flesh and filling again at her hips. The frantic motion of Harry’s hips slows, grinding down sporadically in harmony with the peaks of her arousal.

Louis gently takes one of Harry’s hands in hers, guides it underneath the hem of her dress and upwards until she feels lace on her fingertips. Harry’s breath hitches.

“D’you want to?” Louis murmurs against Harry’s jaw, peppering kisses and tiny bites along its jut.

Harry can’t answer, not in words, so she just lets out a soft noise and lets her hand connect with Louis’ clothed pussy. Her fingers twitch when she feels Louis’ own wetness, seeping through the fabric.

“Lou,” she breathes, reverent.

Louis rests her forehead on Harry’s, locking their eyes together as they exhale into each other’s mouths.

“Haz…anything you want. Take whatever you want,” she says softly.

“I - I’m scared, Lou. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“It’s alright, darling. Don’t hold back. Anything you want.”

Harry takes a deep breath, then releases it. She plants a firm, passionate kiss onto Louis mouth, and lets her hand pull the lace aside. She catalogues the sensation of rough, wiry hair on the back of her hand, then dips a finger between Louis’ lips, instantly swallowed up by the slickness. She circles it around her clit, then explores a little lower, pushing it gently, tenderly into Louis’ centre, feeling the velvety heat of her.

She experiments a little with pumping her finger gently in and out, takes it back up to circle her clit, traces the folds of her labia, and is rewarded with encouraging moans and whimpers from Louis. Boldly, she slides a second finger in with the first, and speeds up her motions. The reaction it elicits from Louis is delicious, as she bucks her hips forwards to meet Harry’s thrusts, and Harry doesn’t think she’s ever been this turned on in her life. She fits a thumb over Louis’ clit while she keeps her fingers moving, and in a flash of inspiration remembers how she used to touch herself in her early teen years, before she’d learned to suppress her need.

Finding her rhythm once again against Louis’ thigh, spurred on by the hands roughly grabbing at her arse cheeks, she presses her fingers in deep and crooks them slightly, fumbling a little until she hears Louis gasp. She doubles down her efforts until Louis is moaning openly on every thrust, and there’s a storm building in her own belly that grows with every harsh press of her body to Louis’ leg.

Harry can hardly breathe when she comes, and it’s all she can do to keep her fingers moving inside Louis while she soaks her panties and twitches her way through the cresting aftershocks. After a moment Louis follows, and Harry seals their lips together to feel her breath stutter along with her shaking body as she reaches her climax.

. . . . .

Harry’s back is incandescently warm where Louis is pressed against it, curled around her with her arms wrapped gently around her waist. Her heart is thumping as she comes down from her high, mind catching up to her in the darkness of the bedroom.

Her first instinct is to panic, but almost as if Louis’ wired into her nervous system, the arms around her tighten and the ball of anxiety in her chest loosens slightly.

“I’ve never…” she whispers hesitantly, “I’ve never felt like that before. Ever. It’s just never been like that for me.”

Louis is quiet. The space feels fragile, somehow, as if Harry could snap a thread by moving a single muscle or speaking too loud.

Her eyes water a little again.

“I’m terrified, Louis. I don’t want to think what that could mean. What this meant.”

She waits for a reply, but is met with nothing but silence.

When she looks over her shoulder, Louis is already asleep.

. . . . .

Harry wakes up in a tangle of limbs, bedsheets twisted around hers and Louis’ naked bodies. She sinks into the warmth and drinks in the feeling of Louis’ soft skin sliding against hers, the dusting of light hair on her calves tickling Harry’s own legs, the supple weight of her breasts pressing into her side. She reaches out, half-asleep, to pull Louis’ body closer, then freezes.

Her blood runs ice cold as last night comes flooding back.

Her eyes slide open slowly. She takes a long look at Louis’ peaceful, sleeping face before making the snap decision to bolt.

She gingerly extricates herself from the woman’s hold and rolls off the bed, then darts around the room to gather up her clothes.

She catches her leg on the bed frame trying to pull her pants on, and a stab of panic shoots through her as the noise makes Louis stir.

“Where are you going?” Louis mumbles from the bed, voice sleep-rough and slurred.

“I have to go. I have work.”

Harry snatches up the rest of her things.

“I’ll call you later, Lou.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer.


	9. Chapter 9

**East Yorkshire, 1988**

**October** ****

Outside the old stately manor, Harry is caught up in a flurry of movement as the bride’s party gathers. Someone bumps into her in the rush, almost knocking her flat on the ground, but she catches herself and smooths down the obnoxiously large ruffles on her sea-green dress.

A vintage car pulls up next to the gaggle of women and the cool air erupts in excited chatter as Niall steps out in a cap-sleeved ivory gown and simple pearl-trimmed veil, blonde hair swept up into an elegant twist.

“Right, we all ready, then?” the bride asks casually, as if they hadn’t all just spent the entire first half of the day powdering and plucking and pampering themselves and each other in an adrenaline-fuelled frenzy.

Harry grins, then takes her place as maid of honour in the line ahead of Niall and tosses her hair back as she schools her face back into a demure smile.

The heavy front doors open and the shrill yet resonant sounds of the organ spill out.

Harry moves in a choreographed slow glide, forwards and forwards through the hall and down the aisle between rows of friends and family.

She reaches the front and takes her place as Niall comes up after her, and the two stand side by side on an angle so as to be facing Zayn - and Louis.

Louis, Zayn’s best man of choice, looking devastatingly handsome in her closely tailored suit, hair quiffed back to accentuate her cheekbones. Harry can’t believe she had never noticed the way she had always stared so openly at women, not with how she’s suddenly painfully aware of how her eyes are hungrily trailing over the tight-fitting pants hugging Louis’ strong thighs, the subtle bump of her cleavage under her shirt, the way the jacket nips in perfectly at her waist. She flicks her eyes up to discover that she’s been caught - Louis sporting her signature smirk, if a bit dimmed, and flicking her own eyes pointedly over Harry’s eye-catching, figure-hugging ruffled green monstrosity of a bridesmaids’ dress.

Harry blushes and turns away.

As Niall and Zayn say their vows, however, she can’t help but let her eyes be pulled back to Louis, as if by some magnetic force.

She narrows her eyes and tries to decipher Louis’ body language, but her face is utterly unreadable.

“I do.”

Harry’s thoughts are cut short as Niall’s voice interrupts her reverie, and she drags her focus back.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

The room erupts in applause and cheers as Zayn pulls Niall in for a passionate kiss, and Niall sneaks a hand around to cheekily pinch at his bum, earning them a wolf whistle from Louis.

As the couple make their way back down the aisle, hands clasped together, Harry wipes a tear from her eye.

. . . . .

Thirty minutes into the reception, Harry is deep in conversation with a complete stranger, whom she thinks is most likely from Zayn’s side.

“Niall is so happy. I’ve honestly _never_ seen her so happy in all the time I’ve known her, and I’ve known her for almost _ten_ years now,” she says emphatically.

The stranger just nods. It seems that perhaps she’s been boring them a little, whoever they are. Harry flashes an awkward smile, lifts her empty wine glass in farewell and starts moving away to find someone else to bother.

It’s just her luck that the first person she runs into is Louis. Literally. The moment she turns around she collides with the woman’s body and nearly falls.

Louis steadies her with gentle hands on her shoulders to keep her from toppling over.

“Thanks,” she mutters, embarrassed.

“How’ve you been, Haz?” Louis asks lightly.

“Busy. Doing fine,” she replies noncommittally.

Louis nods. She takes in a sharp breath.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No, of course not, I’ve just been…”

“Busy?”

“Yeah,” Harry confirms weakly.

“It’s been three weeks, Harry. You haven’t spoken to me since you ran out on me _three_ _weeks_ ago.”

Harry swallows the spit that’s collected in her mouth.

“We don’t- we don’t need to talk about it. Can’t we get past this?”

Louis’ eyes darken with anger.

“Yes, we do need to talk about it, Harry. You can’t just avoid it. I’ve been _through_ this, I know _exactly_ what you’re going through. You want to act like what happened doesn’t mean anything, right? That’s why you sprinted out the door?” Louis advances a little, crowding Harry’s space.

Harry clenches her jaw.

“It was the _worst_ mistake I’ve ever made.”

With that, she stalks off towards the bar, grabbing a glass of champagne from a tray as she walks and downing it all in one go.

. . . . .

Some time later Harry is floating from short conversation to short conversation, exchanging pleasantries and harmless anecdotes, and she’s _tipsy_.

As she works her way through the room she keeps accidentally catching Louis in her eye line, shooting her dirty looks each time.

After a while Louis has had enough, she storms over to grab Harry firmly by the arm and guides her towards the staff kitchen, irritation clouding her expression.

Once they make it through the doors and to relative privacy Louis rounds on her, gaze livid. She looks _pissed_.

“Stop giving me that fucking death stare, Harry. I’m _trying_ to enjoy my best friend’s wedding.”

Harry shoots back, “Well, me too, but you’ve been hovering around like some kind of… _hoverfly_ and its awfully hard to ignore you _buzzing_ around like that.”

She winces internally at her awkward phrasing, but can’t seem to do better given the alcohol flowing through her veins.

Louis looks around to make sure none of the kitchen hands are paying too close attention, bustling about preparing dishes, then locks her gaze onto Harry.

“If you’ve decided that you’re going to ignore what happened, ignore what you _are_ , have it your way. But let me make this _very_ clear, Harry.”

Harry’s heart stutters as Louis leans in close.

“I did _not_ let you come over that night so that I could seduce you. Okay? That was all you. I didn’t _force_ you to do anything, so be certain you don’t get it into your head that _I’m_ the one who fucked this up.”

Despite herself, Harry feels her eyes keep flicking to Louis’ lips, unusually pink with a subtle gloss. She ought to be fighting back, but her mind is entirely consumed with the memory of how it had felt to feel those lips on hers.

Snapping out of her stupor briefly, she balls her fists at her sides.

“It’s still all your fault, Louis! I would _never_ have had to deal with this if I’d never met you. I could’ve just lived my life in peace and I’d never have to know that I’m…”

Louis looks indignant at the accusation. Harry lets the sentence dangle for a moment, then launches herself forward and grabs Louis’ face, crashing their mouths together.

Louis’ hands instantly fly to her waist, kneading at the soft flesh as she brings their bodies flush together, and Harry lets out a moan as she tangles their tongues skilfully.

She pulls back just enough to hiss angrily right into Louis’ dazed face.

“You’ve fucking _ruined_ me, Louis. I can’t stop thinking about it. What we _did_.”

Before Louis has a chance to respond, she covers her mouth again and slides her tongue between her lips.

One of her hands comes up to pull roughly at Louis’ spray-stiff hair, the other still gripping at her jaw. She tries to use her height to her advantage, to take control of the exchange, but Louis’ experience wins out and she submits to her relentless barrage.

Gasping for air and dizzy in the head, she leans forward to whisper in Louis’ ear.

“I want…I want to feel your _mouth_ on me,” she murmurs.

A shiver runs through Louis’ body as Harry’s heart thuds, scandalised by her own words.

Louis opens her mouth to respond, eyes half lidded, but they’re both interrupted by a clatter of pots just behind them and the sound of Niall’s voice over the PA system floating through the kitchen doors.

They spring apart and head back out into the main room, leaving behind an entire kitchen’s worth of appalled staff.

“I would like to make a toast,” Niall declares from on top of a table, microphone in hand.

Harry’s still trying to catch her breath, but she’s suddenly singled out as Niall reaches out an arm to point at her and Louis.

“To Louis and Harry. If either me or Zayn had found either of them even _remotely_ attractive, we would not be here today!”

Laughter and applause fill the room.

Harry feels something rough push into her palm, feels Louis’ presence next to her disappear. She looks down at the object and sees a piece of paper, a hastily scrawled message.

_Meet me in my hotel room in 30. Room 208._

Her hands tingle where they’re framing the note.

. . . . .

The tentative knock sounds to Harry a little too loud for this deserted hallway, magnified by the beating of her heart.

She looks around self-consciously, and almost turns to leave, but in a split second the door swings open and a hand darts out to pull her inside.

A body presses her firmly against the wall as the door slams, and Harry finds herself suddenly overcome by Louis encompassing all her senses. Caged in by her toned arms, Harry can do nothing but take everything Louis is giving her - lips colliding hard enough to bruise, tongue dipping in and out almost aggressively. She lets out an involuntary whimper.

Louis’ hands move down to pull at her hips as Harry clings to her shirt for dear life. She moans as Louis’ thigh suddenly pushes firmly in between her legs, throbbing at the pressure.

Shivers erupt down Harry’s spine as a pair of lips attach firmly to her neck, gently nibbling and laving over her skin, and she wills her shaking hands to move, clumsily unbuttoning Louis’ shirt.

When the last button is finally undone, she roughly pushes the fabric off Louis’ shoulders and palms over her simple cotton bra hungrily. Louis seems to get the message and moves her own hands to the back of Harry’s dress, searching for a zipper. After a few moments of fumbling Harry leans away.

“Wait, wait, slow down,” she pants.

Louis springs back as if she’s been burned, apology on the tip of her tongue, but Harry places a reassuring finger to her lips.

She moves away from the wall and braces herself against the rustic white bed frame, back to Louis, and looks bashfully over her shoulder.

“It’s, um, a very delicate fabric, so you have to do it gently,” she explains.

She shuts her eyes tight and leans her head against her folded arms on the bedpost as she presents the long trail of tiny buttons to the other woman.

Louis takes her time unbuttoning each individual catch, keeping her body close enough that Harry can feel her wet breath on the back of her neck every time she exhales. As she releases each fastening Harry gets shivers down her vertebrae, slickness already collecting between her legs.

When Louis reaches the final button, she leaves a ghost of a kiss at the very bottom of her spine, then stands upright to slowly, gently push the fabric down Harry’s body until it pools on the ground.

Harry takes a shaky breath and steps out of the dress. Back still facing Louis, she swallows and reaches behind her to unclasp her own bra, letting it slip off her shoulders. Pulse racing, she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her soft lace panties and drags them down, then turns around, standing completely bare in front of Louis.

It all feels so fragile, so intimate, especially considering the way she was being ravished against the wall not even fifteen minutes ago.

Louis locks her sharp eyes with Harry’s and slowly walks forward, sending Harry backward until her knees hit the side of the bed. She reaches out gentle palms to guide her down onto the mattress.

Determined to retain some semblance of agency, Harry takes the initiative to manoeuvre herself until her body is sprawled out invitingly over the pillows and soft duvet.

As she watches, Louis removes the rest of her own clothes, revealing stretches of soft golden skin and rounded flesh that contrasts with the angular framework of her bones. She’s a vision.

Now equally bare, Louis crawls up onto the bed and leans over Harry on all fours, face hovering maddeningly above Harry’s. Her breath catches when she sees the sensuous look in her darkened blue eyes.

Louis closes the distance between them and catches her mouth in a fervent kiss, Harry’s eyes sliding shut as she savours the sensation. As her mouth moves once again towards Harry’s neck, she grabs hold of her wrists and gently holds them down on either side of her head. Harry’s back arches slightly.

A whimper slips out from between Harry’s lips as Louis sucks a mark right underneath her ear, pleasure-pain washing over her.

“Louis,” she moans helplessly.

Louis lifts her head and flicks her hooded eyes up to Harry’s, wide open in a silent plea.

“Lay back, love, just let me take care of you,” Louis murmurs as she moves downwards and starts planting lingering kisses over Harry’s collarbones, chest, breasts, nipples.

She keeps moving down, down, down and Harry’s entire body is trembling at her ministrations, completely powerless to her determined mouth.

By the time she reaches her soft inner thighs, Harry is openly moaning, bucking her hips lightly in an attempt to get some friction.

“Louis, _please_ ,” she gasps.

Louis smirks and acquiesces, finally smoothing her hands over Harry’s thighs to gently spread them open, exposing her glistening pink folds. She uses just her fingertips to ghost over Harry’s pubic mound and trail down to her outer labia, so, so gently, then dips into her wetness and spreads it up to her clit.

Head lowering, Louis breathes softly over her, then just presses her tongue firmly against her without moving. Harry’s brain nearly shuts down. She clutches at the sheets.

The very tip of Louis’ tongue traces her folds excruciatingly slow, teasing. Louis looks up briefly to check if Harry’s okay, then just dives in, licking long stripes over her folds and swirling around her clit.

Harry’s legs twitch and kick out reflexively at the sensation, and without missing a beat, Louis grips her thighs to hold her down firmly. She throws her head back into the pillows, already overwhelmed.

Moving to her entrance, Louis fucks her with her tongue for a bit, then slides two strong fingers in at once as she mouths at her clit, stretching her open slowly. She moans into Harry’s pussy as she starts to speed up her movements, her cries spurring her on.

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Harry chokes out as the sensation shifts.

It’s building - Harry feels as if she’s tethered to something that’s pulling her higher and higher, and she’s just waiting for the rope to snap and send her plummeting.

Louis suckles on her clit and presses her fingers right into her spot. Harry’s mouth falls open as blinding white pleasure courses through her and she’s coming with a sob, pulsing around Louis’ fingers. Despite Louis’ efforts to keep her spread, her body twitches, legs shaking and clamping down around her head as she gently licks her through the weaker pulses that follow.

Harry’s limbs feel heavy as she flops back like a rag doll, skin covered in a sheen of sweat and flushed from her face all the way down her chest. She heaves in each breath, staring at the ceiling.

“Holy fucking shit,” she breathes, slurring even though the alcohol has long left her system.

She looks over to where Louis is draped on her side, satisfied expression on her face as she takes in her handiwork.

Harry is suddenly struck with the guilty realisation that Louis has yet to get off.

“Oh, do you want me to - ”

“Don’t worry love, I just fucked your brains out, so I don’t think you’ll be moving for a while,” she says, amused. “Watching you come was more than satisfying.”

Harry didn’t think it was possible for her face to get any redder.

“Wait,” she says, thinking. “Just let me watch you, yeah?”

Louis’ smile widens into a dangerous smirk as she rearranges herself on the bed so she’s facing Harry, thick thighs spread wide.

Harry can tell she’s putting on a bit of a show, fingers sliding artfully between her labia and dipping into her entrance, but she can’t bring herself to look away even at the cost of indulging Louis’ dramatic streak.

She watches, wide-eyed, as Louis pumps her fingers into her own pussy, wet and dripping, curving on every thrust. Her other hand plays relentlessly with her clit, forming tight circles that make her eyes flutter and her jaw loosen.

As she approaches her orgasm both hands speed up, and Harry is shocked at the erotic sight of Louis stretching her pinky out to tease lightly at her arse, just grazing over the skin. Louis comes with a drawn-out moan, staring deep into Harry’s transfixed gaze.

As she comes down Harry reaches out for her, pulling her down so she can wrap her body around her and cling like a teddy bear. She rests her head just above Louis’ breast, moving with the steady rise and fall of her breath.

After a while of being lost in her thoughts, Harry tentatively opens her mouth to speak.

“D’you think…when we get back to London, d’you want to go ice skating? On Tuesday?”

She feels like she’s holding her breath in anticipation.

“Ah, sorry Haz, I’m going to a poetry reading with Bree that night. Maybe the weekend?” Louis replies.

Harry tenses up, uncurls herself from Louis’ body. She grabs the loose sheet and covers her body as she sits up and looks down at Louis’ blasé expression.

“All that shit you were saying to me, about not pretending this doesn’t mean anything, that was all _bullshit_ , wasn’t it?” she seethes, voice shaking. “You just wanted to get me to sleep with you again, god, I was so stupid to think you actually _cared_!”

Louis sits up, panicked.

“God, Haz, no, I - I thought we were just having fun, that I was helping you explore your sexuality,” she rushes out. “I didn’t realise you want - ”

“Well, I _don’t_. I don’t want _anything_ from you, Louis Tomlinson.”

She tries to get her ridiculous dress back on, but can only manage to do up a few infernal buttons before she huffs and gives up, holding the fabric together with a clenched fist. She rushes to the door on wobbly legs.

“Haz - ” Louis pleads.

She cuts her off with a slammed door.


	10. Chapter 10

**London, 1988**

**December** ****

All through November, Harry had made a concerted effort to ignore every single one of Louis’ calls, and avoid all their usual haunts.

The gap Louis’ presence left is palpable, and Harry finds herself struck by every realisation of just how much time they always spent together. With Niall on honeymoon, and her other friends away for the holidays, Harry spends most of her time in solitary ways, and it’s all she can do to chase away the ache in her chest every time she sees a film by herself or goes out for dinner alone.

Now it’s December, and Christmas is fast approaching. Louis’ daily unanswered calls have become regular marathon sessions with Harry’s answering machine, and Harry is finding it increasingly difficult to stand her ground and block her out.

Harry shoves her apartment door open just as a familiar voice comes through the phone speakers, giving her no choice but to listen to the message while she lugs the massive Christmas tree through the living room.

_“Good morning Harry-not-Harriet, it’s me again. Remember me? Your best friend Louis? Probably not. It has been an entire week since the last time I called, I’m sure I’m nothing but a distant memory to you by now.”_

Harry grunts as she gathers her strength to shove the tree upright in the corner. She dusts her hands off and surveys the carnage of toppled furniture and trails of pine needles left in her wake.

_“As always, I’m calling to say I’m sorry. And I’m not seeing Bree anymore, if that’s what you’re worried about. I didn’t even really like her, if I’m honest.”_

Harry scoffs, and starts tidying up with a vengeance. To think that the only problem was _Bree_. She kicks out at the couch, a little too hard, and swears as she clutches her smarting foot.

_“Let me know when you’re ready to talk. It’s important.”_

When the message clicks off Harry breathes a sigh of relief, and heads to the hall cupboard to retrieve her boxes of ornaments.

. . . . .

_“Harry-Harry quite contrary! I am, quite literally, on my knees here as I record this message, so as to channel my sincerest apologies. I’m so sorry. Call me back.”_

. . . . .

Harry’s in the kitchen, humming softly to _‘Tennessee Christmas’_ as she gently folds flour into her spiced gingerbread dough. Without thinking, she turns around and lifts her arm to offer a taste of the spoon to Louis, but she’s not there. She sighs, mentally rebuking herself.

Of course, it’s then that the familiar click sounds. Harry whips her head around to stare at the phone, wooden spoon still in hand and dripping batter.

_“So, Harry, it is now technically Yuletide, formally known as Christmas - season of charity, forgiveness, and grovelling. How’s about we get into the spirit of it? I’ll grovel, you’ll forgive…both of us can go to a charity shop or something…I’m really missing your spicy gingerbread. And your company.”_

Harry grits her teeth and grips onto the counter to keep herself from reaching for the phone, looking accusingly at the mixing bowl as if its mere presence had summoned the message in some cruel karmic punishment.

. . . . .

Christmas passes in a blur of lonely nights tipsy on spiked eggnog. Harry visits her family briefly, feigns enthusiasm in every conversation, curls up with her sister under a blanket as they watch _It’s A Wonderful Life_. If she can’t stop the tears from trailing down her face, she’ll blame it on the film.

. . . . .

_“Harry. Harry. Haaaarry. If you’re there, please pick up the phone. Alright, you’re not answering. I’m guessing there’s three possible options here. A, you’re not home. B, you’re home, but you don’t want to talk to me. C, you’re home,_ desperate _to talk to me, but trapped under something heavy. If it’s A or C, please call me back.”_

. . . . .

Harry shrugs on her warmest winter coat, winds a thick scarf around her neck. She’s just about to head out the door when the phone starts ringing. She pauses, hand on the knob, debates staying to listen.

The answering machine clicks on, and the tinny sound of ABBA spills through the speaker, Louis singing along dramatically in her best theatre voice.

_“I was sitting by the phone, I was waiting all alone! Baby, by myself I sit and wait and wonder about you - that’s you, Haz - dark and dreary night, yeah…nothing’s going right, can you tell me, Hazzy, how can I go on here without you?”_

Against her will, a tiny smile creeps onto Harry’s face. She purses her lips to try to squash it down.

_“Oh-oh ring, ring, why don’t you give me a call? Ring, ring, the happiest sound of them all! Ring, ring, I stare at the phone on the wall - alright, I’m guessing you’re not home - ”_

“Hello.”

_“Harry, oh my god, don’t hang up.”_

On the other end, the music clicks off.

“What do you want, Louis?”

_“I really have to talk to you. In person.”_

“Well I was just on my way out, so - ”

_“Wait! What are you doing for New Year’s?”_

“Look, Louis - ”

_“Are you going to the Newtons’? Cause, you know, we always said if we both didn’t have a date we would - ”_

Harry sighs, biting her lip to hold her tears back.

“I can’t do this, Louis. I just can’t. I can’t be what you want.”

_“Harry, wait - ”_

Harry hangs up the phone.

. . . . .

The Newtons’ is wild and boozy as usual, energy thrumming through the room as couples and friends celebrate the last night of the year. A few people recognise Harry as the endlessly fun dancefloor disaster from last year, but she brushes them off. She just can’t bring herself to dance, not tonight.

Niall and Zayn keep an eye on her, she can tell they’re concerned, but she keeps slipping out of sight to try and steal some moments to herself.

After some time she decides that maybe she ought to put in some effort to socialise, a decision she regrets pretty much instantly as she ends up stuck chatting to one of the dullest men she’s ever met.

“…and after all that time, she simply could not get the hang of it! You know what she did, first tee, first hole? She _stepped on the ball!_ ”

The man erupts in laughter at his own mind-numbingly boring anecdote.

Harry feigns amusement, dying a little inside.

She leans back against the pillar, Niall mid-conversation on the other side.

“I can’t believe you dragged me into this. I’m fucking leaving,” she mutters.

“You’ll never get a taxi,” Niall replies flatly.

Harry turns back to face her dull companion and starts faking laughter. It sounds pained.

. . . . .

Across town, Louis is wandering aimlessly around Soho, thinking helplessly of Harry.

Their shared history runs through Louis’ head in a supercut of moments. Their first meeting, how Harry had fumbled every time Louis feigned offence at her faux-pas, the wicked thrill Louis had felt at successfully scandalising her time and time again, how her arrogance had ultimately doomed them both to start their lives in London seperate and without a single friend.

Their second meeting, when Louis had instantly clocked how unhappy Harry was with Nick but had no clue how to help her, and again ended up driving her away with careless words.

She passes the bookstore where they met for the third time, remembers how they’d finally connected and forged a rare friendship despite their animosity. The ease with which they got along, how Louis had never had so much fun with one person in her life. How sacred it had felt to kiss her for the first time, to hold her as she discovered how their bodies could move together.

The hollow emptiness she’d felt when she woke up alone. The anguish deep in her bones when Harry had run from that hotel room, how she’d cried herself to sleep thinking she’d just lost her best friend. And maybe, just maybe - the love of her life.

Louis’ pace slows to a stop. She catches a glimpse of herself in an empty shop window, looking like hell in a ratty sweatshirt, jeans and a heavy leather jacket. Her mind races.

Decision made, she takes off in a sprint.

. . . . .

“Niall, I think I’m gonna go home. I can’t be here anymore.”

Niall furrows her brow, Zayn on her arm.

“Harry, it’s almost midnight. Won’t you stay for the countdown?”

Harry blinks back the threat of tears.

“I just - the thought of not kissing somebody is just - I can’t. I have to go. Bye Niall.”

She kisses Niall gently on the cheek, pats Zayn on the arm.

She turns quickly and starts making her way through the crowd of people slow dancing, arms wrapped around each other in pairs, cheek to cheek.

Her footsteps stop cold as she catches sight of the door, wide open, revealing a panting Louis.

The woman steadies her breath, then lifts her head. She spots Harry immediately.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Harry,” she says, approaching her quickly.

“I really don’t want to hear it, Louis, I just want to go home. Please.”

“Just listen.”

Harry is silent, but stays where she is.

Louis sighs.

“Do you remember what I said to you the first time we met?”

“That I’m naive and neurotic and would be hard pressed to ever find someone who could put up with me?” Harry snaps.

“No, the other thing. You know.”

Harry drops her gaze to her hands, fiddles with her rings.

“You said you could never be ‘just friends’ with women, because sex would always get in the way. I told you I was straight. You laughed at me. I was so mad at you, but you were right. You were. And we can’t be friends.”

Harry shakes her head and turns away, but the chills that erupt at the sudden feel of Louis’ hand on her arm keep her from bolting.

“Harry, look at me. I was wrong. Of course I have female friends. I said that because I was young, and arrogant, and stupidly intimidated by you. You were so beautiful, and clever, and _unavailable_. My brain just flew right out that car window.”

Harry lifts her gaze to search Louis’ eyes.

“But in a way I _was_ right, about us.”

Louis takes a deep breath. Harry feels like she hasn’t stopped holding hers all night.

“I could never be friends with you, because why would I want to be friends when we could be lovers?”

Harry stills. Her jaw tenses.

“Louis. I don’t want to be another one of your _flings_. Yes, the sex was good, but you knowbetter than anyone I don’t want just a few months of fun. We’re in our thirties. Maybe you don’t plan on ever growing up but I’m ready to build a _life_ with someone. Just because I-” she drops her voice to a self-conscious whisper, “- _like women_ now, that doesn’t mean those priorities have changed.”

“What makes you think I don’t want that? With you?”

Harry tears her arm away from Louis’ grasp.

“Don’t do this.”

“I love you, Harry.”

“Don’t.”

“ _I’m_ _in love with you_.”

“You’re not. You just think you are because you’re single, and lonely, and it’s New Year’s Eve. You don’t love me, not really. You can’t.”

Harry turns abruptly and lets her feet carry her to the balcony doors and out into the freezing December air, wiping at her damp eyes. Predictably, as soon as she leans her weight on the balcony railing she hears the doors click open and gently shut.

She buries her face in her hands as distinctive footsteps approach.

“Harry.”

A warm palm settles on the small of her back. She steels all her willpower to try to ignore it.

“ _Harry_.”

Against her better judgement she tilts her head slightly towards the voice, daring her to speak.

“I do love you. I love that you only watch movies you’ve already seen ‘cause you get anxious about not knowing how it ends. I love that you hold onto your favourite shoes way too long after they should’ve been thrown out. I love your ridiculously huge moon dimples and the way your nose scrunches up when you think I’m being insufferable but you can’t help but smile. I love the way you always forget your spare jacket when it’s cold out. I love the daft little frog face you always make when you’re deep in thought. I love absolutely everything about you, darling. And it’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve. I’m sorry I hurt you, and I’m sorry it took so long for me to realise.”

Harry turns around fully to face Louis, whose hands slide down her arms to gently grasp her delicate wrists, thumbs rubbing circles into the soft skin. There’s no trace of irony or false bravado in Louis’ face, just pure sincerity and tender resolve. She’s glowing in the lamp light.

“Harry, I came here tonight because when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”

The muffled sounds of partygoers singing ‘ _Auld Lang Syne_ ’ float out onto the balcony. Harry’s throat constricts with emotion, making it hard to speak. She ghosts a hand over her neck.

“That’s so like you,” she whispers, tears springing to her eyes again as if they’d never stilled. “You say things like that, and you- you make it _impossible_ for me to hate you. And I hate you, I do, I _hate_ …”

Eyes locked on Louis’, she takes a shaky breath, then moves her arms to wrap around Louis’ shoulders, lets her hands caress the back of her head, tilting it upwards as she crashes their mouths together. It’s awkward and the angle is all wrong, but it’s still the most sublime thing Harry’s ever felt…

At least until Louis takes control and slips her tongue into Harry’s mouth, breaking her arms out into shivery goosebumps and sparking a still-new sense of fluttering heat deep in her tummy.

After a moment their movements slow, and Louis places one last lingering kiss to Harry’s lips as they breathe into each other’s mouths. As she drops her head to rest in the crook of Louis’ neck Harry lets out a huff of air against her collarbone, dual parts relief and giddy euphoria.

Louis tilts her head towards the doors, listening.

“D’you hear that?”

“What, Lou?”

“‘ _Auld Lang Syne_ ’, right? What does that song even mean? ‘Should old acquaintance be forgot,’ what’s that got to do with New Year’s?”

Harry barks out a laugh.

“Fuck, I love you.”

Louis’ face splits into a brilliant smile, turning her eyes into slivered half-moons.

“I’m serious Haz, I don’t get it!”

Harry runs her hands gently through Louis’ hair, twirling the strands around her fingers.

“I don’t know what it has to do with New Year’s, Lou. Maybe nobody does.”

She pulls her in for a deep kiss, pouring her bursting heart into her lover’s consummate mouth.

Releasing her lips again, Harry pulls back with a tender, dimpled smile, incandescently happy.

All around them, powdered snow starts drifting down from the heavens, gently dusting the balcony in white like an antique snow globe.

“Anyway, it’s about old friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanna say thank you all so much for reading my silly little fic ♡♡♡
> 
> here's some fun little [cursed facts](https://cherrylouvol6.tumblr.com/post/635083321387499520/to-celebrate-the-impending-release-of-the-final) about this universe also ;)
> 
> as always, if you leave a comment or kudos, or reblog the [fic post](https://cherrylouvol6.tumblr.com/post/635095400392572928/others-ive-seen-might-never-be-mean-but-they), i will love you forever !! !!!


End file.
